


Petals and Broken Hearts

by cellard00rs



Series: CSAC series [8]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Language, M/M, Sensuality, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-07 17:03:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7722664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-CSAC; Running into Preston’s old flame leads to some serious misunderstandings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a gorgeous spring day. The weather is fantastic – sunny but cool – not too hot, not too cold. The farmer’s market is buzzing with activity, as far more produce is in season than ever. There’s a variety of different booths – some with vegetables, a few with fruit, but there are even more unique offerings. There’s a table with cheese, one with honey – there’s also a couple of art related tables – some featuring paintings, others with handmade jewelry like necklaces and bracelets. And of course, there are _flowers_.

This is what has motivated Preston Northwest to grace the market with his appearance. The flowers. He’s practically mooning over them. The soft pinks, the vivid purples. Forget-me-nots, lavender, pineapple sage…his hands itch with the idea of planting them deep into fresh soil, in watching their majesty grow. The sight of them fills him with joy.

“Hey! I don’t think she’s here, princey! Whatta waste!”

That joy immediately withers at the sound of that gratingly deep, dump truck of a voice. Preston groans and turns to sneer at Stanley Pines, “Seeing your old flame wasn’t the _only_ purpose of our expedition today!”

“Ex-pah, what now?” Stan chuckles and Preston rolls his eyes. Why on earth couldn’t Ford have come? Preston would have much rather come to the market with Ford. _Ford_ would appreciate the flowers. Ford wouldn’t tease him…at least, not the way Stanley does. Ford would just have been…

Preston rubs at his face and tries to steady himself. Ford had to work at the Press Room today. It’s not his fault. It is, however, _entirely_ Preston’s fault for agreeing to move in with the Pines twins. As he does every single day, he asks himself why on earth he chose to do that. Oh, that’s right – because Fidds convinced him it would be good for him. Because Fidds said he needed friends more than he needed anything else. _Real_ friends.

He looks at Stanley – Stanley who stands there with his dirty, once-white tank top, arms bare (arms with _hair_ on his shoulders - heaven forbid!), old, ripped jeans and big boots – one of which has been annoyingly untied for about an hour now, loose shoe strings trailing along the ground. Preston just keeps waiting for him to trip over them, but he never does.

Not to mention his…everything else. Big body – powerful, but with a hint of soft chub at his belly. Face carrying a rough five o’ clock shadow and his _hair_. It’s long and loose, wild all around his neck. He cut it recently, but not by much. It’s still ridiculously long by Preston’s standards. Honestly, he’s surprised that when Stan got the cut, he didn’t have it styled into a mullet or something else equally hideous.

And _this_ – _this_ is who Ford loves. Ford Pines – the much cleaner, neater, better version of Stanley. The version Preston much prefers. If he had a choice between the twins, Ford would win by a landslide. While Preston has come to recognize Stanley’s own merits – his loyalty, his strength – he still finds himself easily vexed by the beast. He’s made the analogy to himself many a time – Ford is the beauty, Stanley the beast, and himself? Well, he’s that egotistically handsome fellow who harries them.

Preston doesn’t particularly like his role – but he’s self-aware enough to acknowledge it. But, obviously, not all THAT self-aware to recognize that agreeing to let Stanley accompany him was a huge mistake. It’s bad enough they’re roommates – must they also masquerade as friends? Of course, Stanley is _sort_ of his friend. Kind of. Maybe. A little bit.

He looks at Stan, who is now sticking a finger in one ear and twisting it (is he trying to clean it?) and shudders, “Now that you’ve satisfied your curiosity, don’t you have something better to do?”

Stan shrugs, “Not really. It’s a bummer Carla’s not here though. Ford said when he saw her she looked about ready to pop! I just wanted to give her my congratulations. I mean, when you think about it – that coulda been my baby in another world.”

“Hardly,” Preston scoffs, “I’m sure she would have made sure to engage in _extremely_ safe sex were she to dally with you more than once.”

“Fair enough,” Stan gives him a not-so-friendly smile, “After all, Ford certainly does.”

Preston stews over that and Stan looks disgustingly self-satisfied. This is a common occurrence. Stan loves to rub his relationship with his brother in Preston’s face. He seems to be under some wild delusion that Preston has – has _romantic_ feelings towards Ford. As does Fidds. As does Susan, as does…

The thought of all those who doubt him makes his blood boil and he grumbles, “I would keep that to myself if I were you. What if someone were to overhear?”

“Overhear what? That I’m boning Ford? Or that he’s boning me? I don’t give a shit. I’d shout it from a rooftop if I could get to one.”

“You would announce your,” Preston eases close enough so only the two of them can hear, “incestual practices to the entire world?”

Stan eases away from Preston and rolls his eyes, “Nobody overhearing me say ‘Ford’ is going to automatically link him with my twin. They’d have to see us together to figure that out. As it is, if someone was eavesdropping, they’d just think I’m getting it from some random dude. Heck, they might even think it was a random girl. Ford’s a pretty unisex name.”

“You think so?”

“Hmm, Preston too.”

“Preston could not be a girl’s name!”

“Why not? This is a new world we’re living in, pal. You should get your mind out whatever decade your daddy tried to raise you in,” Stan laughs at Preston’s glare, “Let me guess? The roarin’ twenties? Tried to make you inta the next Great Gatsby?”

“As if you’ve read that novel!”

“‘And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer,’” Stan quotes without missing a beat and Preston just stares at him. Stan smirks, “Yeah, that’s right. Should think twice before calling me dumb.”

“I didn’t-!”

“May as well’ve. You think I’m an uneducated oaf, I get it. But you should get offa that high horse of yours. Hell, I’m a college student now!” Stan boasts, but then makes sure to add a ‘sort of’ even as Preston argues, “Yes, thanks to me, I might add! And while I will admit to some…previous remarks about your intellectual capabilities, that has no bearing on our current situation, in which you lament the inability to see your previous paramour! Now – you’ve come, you’ve seen that Carla is absent, so why don’t you feel free to bug off?”

“‘Bug off?’ That seems little commonplace for you,” is his response, “Shouldn’t you say it in some prissy, highfalutin way?”

Preston glares at him, wishing that Stanley would simply take his advice and leave. True, Preston rode with him to the market, but he’s actually willingly to submit himself to (gulp!) public transport if he must. He’s at a point where he would be willingly to do just about anything to ditch the more aggravating Pines when he catches sight of…something.

Or, it would be more apt to say, _someone_.

Stan must see his expression, because he says his name cautiously, as if recognizing that something is wrong. Preston waves him off and carefully, oh so carefully, finds himself walking forward. They’re in a part of the market that is replete with flowers. He came here to inspect what was new – to purchase some for the Press Room and for the balcony back at the apartment. He passes azaleas, gardenias, hyacinths, even some of his beloved orchids. He passes by them and grows closer and closer to…to the ghost he thought he spotted.

Surely it was a ghost. Only a ghost can make you feel such things, yes? Make your heart quicken, your blood run, make your eyes water. Only a ghost can touch you on so deep a level. He imagined it. Surely he imagined…

But then he hears his voice. That sweet, sweet mellifluous voice that he hasn’t heard in ages. It’s soft and deep, warm and curling in his stomach, like the burn of a good whiskey. He edges ever closer to its sound, reassuring himself over and over again that he’s imagining it, that it’s not real, that it can’t be real. It’s been years. _Years_. He’s searched for that voice, for that face, since he was sixteen.

He did whatever he had to do to try and find it again, to capture it once more. He went behind his father’s back, he hired private detectives, he searched and searched to no avail. That voice (and the face attached to it) they disappeared into the ether. Never to be seen or heard again. But he hears it now and it makes his mouth go dry, his body ache. Preston feels dizzy as he gets ever closer and he catches a flash of copper hair, of caramel skin and thinks to himself: _no, no, no – it can’t be, it just can’t be, it can’t…_

But then he sees him. Preston sees him. He sees Rafe Ramirez standing there – no, correction, here. He’s here. He’s here right now. He’s here in this farmer’s market. He’s here - alive and in the flesh and talking to some vendor about snap dragons. He laughs and there are those crinkles around his eyes, the ones Preston never forgot. He says something in Spanish and the vendor he is speaking to laughs in return and oh yes, Rafe was always so funny and so sweet and Preston kissed him, Preston…

And a wellspring of anxiety bursts up hot and uncontrollable inside Preston. Right in the very center of his being. It consumes him in hot waves, washing over him, filling him close to bursting. Preston has always prided himself on the belief that, in the age old question of flight versus fight, he’s a fighter. But not now. Not here. Not in this. In this, he’s someone who desperately flees.

He searched for Rafe, yes. He wanted to see him again, speak to him again. Or at least, so he thought. But now? Now that he sees him, hears him, can speak to him – he finds he can’t. He just…he _can’t_. Preston draws away from Rafe like he’s being stalked. Like Rafe is a hunter, thirsty with the desire to do him bodily harm. He damn near knocks over pots of plants in his eagerness to depart, practically falling all over himself to escape.

Worse, he picks up a sound behind him. That voice. Oh dear god, that _voice_. Did it just say his _name_? Was he _seen_? Oh god, oh god, _oh god,_ oh no, no, _no, no_ …

Preston scatters away as best he can. He’s pretty much crab walking it, not wanting to rise and possibly be caught by Rafe. He skitters close to the ground, like a cockroach trying not to be noticed in the light. He sees Stanley and feels the oddest sense of comfort. Yes, Stanley - good, good. Stanley is a perfect representation of his life _now_. His life sans Rafe.

Stanley definitely catches sight of Preston and gives him a bemused look, “Pres?”

“Shut up,” Preston hisses even as he continues to slink as lowly as possible. Stan opens his mouth again, says something else equally useless and Preston just lets out another hissed, “ _Shut up_!”

Stan doesn’t seem offended, so much as vastly entertained. It’s clear he has no idea why Preston is trying to act so covert. Preston, for his part, slithers closer to Stan and risks rising ever so slightly. He can’t see Rafe, but he senses somehow that he’s _near_. Finally Stan’s words reach him, “…the matter?”

“What?” Preston snaps, as if the question is a foolish one.

“I said, ‘what’s the matter’? I’ve been asking you it ever since-”

“Nothing is the matter,” Preston mutters cagily, “I just…thought I saw someone. It doesn’t matter. It’s no one.”

“Who’d you-?”

“Blast it, Pines! I SAID no one! Now, I think it best if we depart!”

“‘Depart’? I thought you’d wanna look around some more. You haven’t even bought a bushel of flowers or a packa pansies or whatever the hell-”

“Quiet!” Preston interrupts again because that deep sense that Rafe is near is growing stronger. It makes him feel as if he’s going mad. There is no way on earth he can sense such a thing. And that wasn’t Rafe. More likely it was merely someone who looked like him. Someone with similar features. Someone with a similar voice. Someone who absolutely, positively could not in any way shape or form be-!

Cautiously, oh so very cautiously, Preston gets to his feet and sees, without a doubt, that the person in question is indeed Rafe Ramirez and, what’s more, he is coming over. He’s moving with sure strides over in his direction and Preston feels as if someone is throttling him. He even makes choked noises as he grabs Stanley and thrusts him forward. He cowers behind Stan’s back and while Stan allows himself to be moved about, he’s still lost, “Hey! What the heck?!”

“I told you to keep your mouth shut! Now just-just hide me!” Preston cries, voice growing high pitched with desperation, “Hide me, you lumbering mountain!”

Stan lets out a disgusted grunt at that particular description but (thankfully) doesn’t move. He stands in place and lets Preston use him as a human shield. Preston stays behind him, eyes sealed tight and prays and prays and hopes against hope that his imagination merely ran away with him. That he didn’t actually see Rafe and that Rafe isn’t coming over here and that he won’t hear-!

“Preston?”

The sound of his name from that voice, after all this time, makes his knees tremble. He shivers slightly and he feels Stan’s back go straighter. Blast. Bad enough to be in this position, but for Stanley to feel his weakness. Preston draws in a loud, deep breath and squeezes his closed eyes tighter. _You are a Northwest_ , his mind reminds him firmly, _YOU are a Northwest_!

This in mind, Preston makes himself stand up tall and he puts his best face forward, the mask that he’s perfected since childhood, “Ah! If it isn’t, ah…?”

 _Yes, good_ , his thoughts encourage him, _pretend you don’t remember him. Why should you remember him? You wouldn’t. He doesn’t matter. He’s no one. Sure, you…kissed him, but that was a mistake in judgement. That was nothing, it meant nothing, he’s nothing and you are better than_ -!

“Rafe,” he says in that smooth tone and Preston’s knees shake again. Dammit. Preston gulps and his head tips down in a jerky nod, “Oh, yes, of course. Rafe. I remember now.”

Should he have said that? Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. Would it have been better to not confess to remembering him? Preston wishes that he would stop agonizing over this. He also wishes that Rafe didn’t look so – so good. Very good. Damned good. He’s damned good looking. Devilishly handsome still, even after all this time. Why couldn’t he look awful?

Part of Preston wishes he looked dreadful. He wishes he had – had grown a disgusting mustache or something. Ford is right – mustaches are disgusting. He’s thankful every day he staved off the temptation to grow one. Rafe would look dreadful with a mustache, Preston is sure. Okay, no – he’s not entirely sure. He could have grown a mustache and possibly looked even better and why, oh why, does he have to look so good?

And what about Preston? Does…does he look good? Does Rafe think _he_ looks good? Does he look at Preston, years older now, and see improvement or failures? Do his knees feel watery? Does he feel at all awkward or uncomfortable or breathless or-?

“You look good,” Rafe replies easily, answering Preston’s unasked questions as well as leading Preston to believe that, no, Rafe is not having the same internal struggle. How can he not have the same internal struggle?! That last time they’d seen one another it had been during a deeply intense moment! They had kissed, his father had arrived, and then he’d been dismissed and they’d never seen one another again and now he’s just standing here, talking to him casually like nothing happened!

Well, two can play that game!

“You also look acceptable,” Preston offers blandly, as if bored and he feels like the victor when suddenly someone else pops up near them. It’s some random blonde fellow. He’s about Preston’s height, Preston’s build but he’s got startlingly bright blue eyes. They’re the kind of blue eyes people write songs about.

He’s wearing an outfit somewhat similar to Preston’s. They both wear polo shirts, but whereas Preston has his usual knotted sweater about his shoulders and well pressed pair of khaki’s, the new arrival has no sweater and is sporting a far more casual pair of chinos. He smiles a perfect smile – all white teeth, perfectly straight and says, “Why, hello! Rafe, who’s this?”

“This is Preston,” Rafe says simply and Preston looks at this new interloper in confusion, one that is cleared up as Rafe continues, “Preston, this is Pierce Montgomery.”

“Pleasure,” Pierce proffers a hand and Preston just stares at in confusion. Rafe continues, “Preston is a Northwest.”

The blonde’s eyes widen, “A Northwest? You don’t say! I’ve heard of your company. Surely you’ve heard of mine. Montgomery International?”

This gets a couple of eye blinks and yes, Preston’s heard of it. Montgomery International is right alongside the other upper echelons of high society. His father has always spoken highly of the Montgomery’s. And now here is one in front of him and Preston feels the wildest urge to sock him in the face. He can’t even say why exactly.

Pierce’s hand is still there and common courtesy dictates Preston take it, so he does. He shakes his hand and clears his throat, “Um, yes. I have. You…you should be proud of what you’ve accomplished. Or what your family’s accomplished.”

He adds the last like a jab, wishing he had opened with that, but Pierce seems annoyingly unruffled, “I have actually accomplished a lot myself, thank you for making note of it! I just helped to open offices up in Mexico. It’s how I came to make Rafe’s acquaintance. How do you two know one another?”

The question makes Preston’s mouth flap uselessly and he finally manages, “He…once worked for me. I-I-I mean my father! He worked for my father. He was a worker for…”

 _Stop it_ , he growls at himself, _stop blathering on like some imbecile_! _You do not ramble_! _Especially not in front of this – this Montgomery_!

He picks up with, “Regardless, it was quite long ago. I take it he is now in your employ?”

“He was,” Pierce says with a bright smile, all dimples and ‘aw shucks’ boy next door, “But he had to take a position under my sister, Delilah. We can’t work together considering our engagement.”

And just like that, ice falls over Preston in waves. Freezing needles prick all over him and his head’s shaking and he knows all the color must have drained from him, lips numb, and he must have misunderstood. Yes, it’s a misunderstanding. A terrible, terrible misunderstanding. One that must be cleared up immediately, “Engagement?”

Pierce nods and lifts one hand and, oh yes, there’s a ring there. Rafe does the same. Preston feels as if the earth is going to open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole. He honestly hopes it does. Then he feels something behind his back. A firm force. It holds him upright and he realizes he was wavering on his feet. He was going to fall.

He was going to fall until this warm force came, pushing gently behind his back. Preston is cold, so the warmth feels phenomenal. He turns to it and that’s when he’s reminded that Stanley is here. Oh lord. Oh god, why? Why, of all the people on god’s green earth, does Stanley Pines have to be here for this? Humiliation presses down on Preston, makes his stomach churn and he’s not completely unconvinced he won’t be ill.

Oh, and won’t that just cap off this perfect day? If he were to just vomit right here and now. Well, maybe he’d get lucky and the majority of his throw up would land on Pierce, staining his fine clothing. But the thought gives him little cheer. Rafe is engaged. He’s engaged. As in engaged to be married. He’s going to marry this blonde billionaire and they’re wearing _rings_ and looking far too perfect to be real and Stanley is here watching all this unfold and he’s going to have all these _questions_ and-!

“Don’t think we’ve been introduced,” Stan speaks up and his voice is so husky. It’s leagues different from Rafe’s soothing tones or Pierce’s dulcet ones. He sounds like someone gave a voice box to a trash compactor and he’s still holding Preston up, one firm hand on the base of Preston’s spine as he just keeps talking, his other beefy hand out for a shake, “I’m Stanley Pines.”

Pierce shakes his hand and Rafe does the same. Then Stanley says the craziest, most insane, absolutely stupidest and most illogical thing any person can ever say in the history of all time, “I’m his boyfriend.”

The words hit the air and Preston almost sticks one finger in his ear to clean it out, because no. No. NO. No, Stanley did NOT just say that. Or, if he did, it’s because Ford’s shown up. Yes! That must be it! Preston’s head whips about wildly, looking for Ford but there is no Ford. There’s no Ford! He knows he’s shaking his head and blinking rapidly and Stanley? Stanley. Just. Keeps. TALKING.

“Yeah, we’ve been together a coupla of months now. Just moved in together a while back. It’s been going great. He’s really classed up the place. Actually purchased the building my apartment was in and some businesses around it. He’s got an eye for that sort of thing, y’know? Leagues better than his old man at the family trade. Bet you got to deal with some of that on yer end too, huh, Pierce?”

Stan smacks out at Pierce, all smiles and jokey manner, “Hard to live up to the legacy, amiright?”

“You’re not wrong,” Pierce concedes with his own little laugh and Preston decides his laugh is stupid even as he continues to have an internal meltdown over what is happening. Stan rolls right on, “Man, but Preston’s killin’ it, though! Gonna make Northwest an even bigger name. I’m talking household! He’s got all sorts of things cooking!”

“That’s great!” Rafe says whole heartedly and Preston feels a little warmth blossom beneath the skin of his cheeks. He gives a wobbly nod and Stan just throws an arm around him and tugs him close, their faces touching, “Yeah, that’s my prince for you. Super hard worker!”

“Your prince?” Rafe repeats and there’s this look in his eyes that somehow gives Preston even more strength. He looks…not hurt, so much as…reminded. Reminded in a way that boosts Preston’s confidence and Stan must pick up the tone because he asks, in the most innocent of voices, “Something wrong?”

Pierce looks at Rafe with concern and Rafe’s lips twitch, shoulders hunching slightly, “That…ah, used to be my nickname for him.”

Stan gasps very loudly, as if this is a huge shock, “Was it now?”

“Wait…you two?” Pierce waves a finger between Rafe and Preston but Stan is not to be deterred, “Well, it’s my name for him now, isn’t it princey?”

Stan rubs his face even more against Preston's and Preston feels a fire stoking up inside of him. He’s sure his expression is not a loving one. But Stan, apparently having far more fun than he should with this situation, just lays it on extra thick, turning to kiss his cheek. Preston practically yanks himself away but Stan covers it with booming laughter, “Still so shy about PDAs! He’s adorable, isn’t he?”

Neither Rafe nor Pierce confirms this, but neither needs to, “But he’s mine. Totally mine! So hands off!”

Stan wraps his arms around Preston’s middle from behind, tugs him close and holds him like a child would hold a prized toy won from a fair. Preston hates him and his life. Apparently not sensing anything untoward (or having the grace not to comment on it) Rafe merely smiles and says genially, “Well, I’m glad to see you with someone so…passionate, Preston. Love looks good on you.”

 _Love looks good on me_? Preston thinks, sure his earlier narrowed eyes go shockingly wide. _How_?! _Are you blind_?! _I don’t love this buffoon, you idiot_! _He is, without a doubt, the LAST person on earth I would ever deign myself to LOVE_.

Truthfully Preston’s surprised he isn’t shouting his thoughts aloud to anyone willing to listen. The only reason he hasn’t stopped this fantastical ruse is because he keeps catching Pierce looking at him now and again with this assessing look and he’ll be damned if he’ll be judged by this – this Montgomery! The Montgomerys…their family is not THAT great. It doesn’t matter if he’s heard of them before. They’re not the Northwests!

And Rafe…before Stan spoke up and started selling the world’s most atrocious lie, he looked…he looked as if he _pitied_ Preston. Preston will not be pitied! Not by anyone! Although, perhaps, it’s pity that’s led Stan to his current act and while Preston hates to think of Pines pitying him, he’ll pick him over Rafe. After all, he can take out his frustrations, both verbally and physically, on Stanley without feeling remorse.

He would legitimately feel bad were he to do so with Rafe. Rafe, who, a lifetime ago – he had thought had actually…that he might…

The tenderness of his past feelings roll over him and he feels a strange bitter sweetness settle in as Stan rumbles, “WHELP! It was lovely meeting you folks, but me and my prince should probably hit the road. Gotta get home and spend some time together, if you know what I mean.”

Stan waggles his eyebrows in a suggestive manner and swings Preston’s body back and forth in a telltale motion – most of it concentrated in their hips. The warmth that had earlier blossomed on Preston’s cheeks now spreads everywhere and he’s sure he now matches the tomatoes being sold in red vibrancy. Preston and Stan turn to leave and everything might have ended just fine if Pierce hadn’t opened his mouth.

“You two should join us for dinner.”

Stan and Preston turn and Pierce is looking at them coolly, “I’d love to hear how you two met.”

“How we…?” Preston doesn’t even finish repeating the question when Stan’s eyes are levelled on Pierce as if the man has called his honor into question, “You sure you want to hear it? It’s pretty damn long. And graphic. I’m talking NC-17 rated.”

Both Rafe and Preston look uncomfortable but Pierce just tosses back his head and chuckles, “Oh, I love a good bawdy tale as much as the next gent! And now that I know Preston and my Rafe were once an item, well…”

“I wouldn’t want to inconvince you two,” Stan remarks dryly, completely unruffled, “I mean, it’s a great story, mind. Mean; we’re two guys you’d’ve never thought would fall in love. But we are. Man, we’re SO in love!”

Stan tugs Preston over again as if to prove it, threading their fingers together and Preston’s dismayed to discover he’s the one with the sweaty hand, not Stanley. Stanley’s hand – if anything – is strong and sure. It even squeezes Preston’s. Preston’s sure it’s all for the act of them as a devoted couple. But then there’s a second squeeze, one less forceful. It’s almost…comforting.

“Are you?” Pierce questions and Rafe looks a little doubting and a little…disappointed. Why would he look disappointed? Preston wants to ask why and he finds, out of nowhere, that now he’s talking. He’s the one squeezing Stanley’s hand, “We are.”

All heads seem to turn to Preston, eyes on him, clearly surprised at his outburst. To be fair, up until this point he’s been very quiet, which is not his norm. But now? Now he speaks and he speaks with authority, “While we are not, as of yet, engaged, we are deeply committed to one another and have been for several months now. We happily accept your kind invitation, Pierce. I’m sure it will be a very stimulating and enjoyable evening.”

“Excellent! Shall we say tomorrow? We’ll send you the location via text if you would be so kind as to exchange that information with us,” Pierce looks to Rafe who draws out his phone and gives Preston an encouraging grin. Preston easily supplies the information as if it’s no skin off his nose and both Rafe and Pierce turn and leave.

Once he is well convinced they are out of sight he turns to Stan. He hopes the murder he feels is perfectly conveyed in his eyes. Stan, for his part, looks pleased as punch. He nudges Preston and chuckles, “Man, this is gonna be fun.”


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, so…here’s the thing. Stanley really has no idea why he got involved. Wait, scratch that. He knows why. It’s because Preston had that… _face_. Preston Northwest had that wounded animal face that Ford’s pulled in the past. Again, _Preston Northwest_. He had the FACE. Stan didn’t even think it was _possible_ for Northwest to pull that face.

But he had it in spades when that hot Rafe guy came waltzing over. Not to mention he damn near collapsed into a puddle at his feet and then that Pierce shows up and there’s this big engagement announcement and Preston’s looking like someone’s removed his heart and is hand feeding it to him. What was Stan supposed to do? Just stand there? Just relish in his misery?

Yes, in the past, before they became…whatever the hell they are now (Roommates? Buddies? Roommates that are kind of buddies?) he would have absolutely adored seeing Preston in that kind of situation. Preston made Ford’s early college days hell. He’d been a self-absorbed, self-righteous prick. But then he’d hit it off with Ford and Ford took him under his wing and made him not so much of an asshat.

So much so, that he friggin’ _lives_ with them now. Preston lives with them, he eats with them, he’s…part of their group. In his own way. A little bit. Enough, at least, for Stan to get defensive when he felt like Preston was getting beat on. More so when he made that damned _face_. That’s what gave rise to Stan’s interfering, his protective instincts kicking into high gear.

It also motivated him into spinning one of the greatest yarns in the history of yarns. Stan’s always been a good liar, but the story he was selling? Priceless. Not to mention the story is not even close to done. Especially not now that he and Preston are gonna have to keep this dog and pony show going.

Frankly, he’s totally fine with this. Preston, however, is not. The moment they get back to the apartment, Northwest takes to wearing a line into their carpet as he paces back and forth. He’s also muttering to himself under his breath like a true nut job. Stan lets him go for a little while before he finally intercedes, “You ready to talk yet?”

“YOU!” The word bursts from Preston with a tremendous amount of force. He turns and stops so suddenly, so sharply, Stan’s impressed he doesn’t break his neck. Especially considering the movement was mid turn around the floor. However, he doesn’t seem much inclined to say anything else. He spouts off his loud ‘you’ and then just stands there, a vein bulging in his neck. Stan waits for more fury, but once it becomes clear he’s not going to receive more, he drawls, “Me?”

Preston just lets out a stream of pent up, aggravated sounds. It’s like he can’t form words. It’s pretty damned funny. Finally he just draws out a chair and falls into it. In some ways, Stan regrets their not having a fainting couch. If they had one, Preston would probably use it now. Hell, he’d probably use it at least three times a day. But right now? Oh yes, he’d definitely use it right now.

Instead he just sags in the chair and does his best impression of a distressed southern belle, minus the southern part, “I can’t…I just can’t believe you. Why? Why would you-?”

The last question, while incomplete, is asked with such distress that Stan actual feels a pang of guilt. He sighs and answers sincerely, “I know an ex when I see one, Preston.”

“An ex…” Preston starts and Stan has to restrain rolling his eyes. He gets it. Preston’s in the closet. Preston lives there. He’s built himself a fantastic life there or, at least, what he views as fantastic. But it’s clear he’s gay. To be fair, Stan didn’t always know. Hell, before he left with Rick, he’d had no idea. But also to be fair, it’s not like he had known Preston very well then. Now? Now he knows him close to inside and out and he knows that he is, in point of fact, _gay_.

Gay and in love with his brother, but that’s a whole other kettle of fish. Granted, it’s a kettle that comes up between them now and again. Stan will admit to taking some pleasure in needling Preston about his relationship with Ford. It’s almost like a healthy competition, a rivalry. It’s fun for him in some ways – to battle with Preston for Ford’s affections. Mainly because he knows he’s already won and Preston poses no real threat.

Ford’s not going to run off with Preston and Preston, well, again – Preston’s so rigidly set in his belief that he’s straight that he’ll never run off with Ford. But the revelation that Preston previously had a boyfriend…

“Yeah, an ex. Rafe, right? You used ta date him.”

“I did NOT date him!” Preston cries in that scandalized voice and this time Stan can’t help _but_ roll his eyes, not that this deters Preston, “If anything Rafe was my – my ex-employee! He and I were not lovers!”

“Yeah, that’d be clear. If you were lovers, I’d imagine you’d be less uptight,” Stan grunts and Preston frowns, “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sayin’ you’d be less worked up if you’d been laid,” he supplies smoothly, “At least I’d hope if you were takin’ it up the ass, you’d move that stick out of the way.”

While the comment is crude beyond belief, Stan decides it’s worth saying once Preston starts making a whole new set of noises – these akin to someone drowning. They’re even funnier than the earlier noises, but they also sound a bit rougher so he waves his hands in surrender, “Alright, alright. Look, calm down and take a breath, will ya? It ain’t that big a deal.”

“That big a-?! Do you have ANY idea what you’ve done?! The position you’ve put us in?!”

“Technically YOU,” Stan makes sure to put the same emphasis on the word as Preston did, “put us in this situation when you agreed to the dinner.”

“How could I NOT agree? There you are – announcing to king and country that we’re madly in love and Rafe is standing right there with his – his fiancé. His _fiancé_ whom, I might add, is a Montgomery and oh, _Pierce_. His name is a stone’s throw away from my own and he’s standing there, all blonde and-and-!”

“I get it. You were jealous.”

“I was _not_ jealous of that carbon copy!” Preston declares and Stan thinks about calling him out on this, but decides to just let it slide. After all, Preston’s had a rough day, “Well, how about we just call it off? You can text them and tell ‘em we can’t make it. We forgot we had a prior engagement or I got the runs or something.”

“Ugh! Must you always be so vulgar?” Preston grouses, “And no. While I would delight in putting this whole sordid affair behind me, I think it best to face the situation head on. Pierce called your words into question, I backed them - as such it is dire that we maintain the façade. Besides I…”

He trails off and for a while, Stan doesn’t think he’ll say more. But then, “…I would like a moment to speak with Rafe. Privately. We left things on a…dubious note.”

“Hoping to win him back, are ya?” Stan asks it with genuine interest and, in a way, to see if he can rile Preston again. It’s not that he necessarily likes poking at Preston’s sensitive spots, but he would rather see Preston angry than how he looks now. Sort of deflated, defeated. Preston can be an ass, but he’s a fiery ass. He has a lot of passion inside him, a lot of life. This? How he is now? It’s not Preston.

It’s too gloomy. Too blue. It makes Stan feel…

Stan squirms where he slouches. He’s been leaning against a wall in the apartment since they got back and, until this moment, he’s been totally relaxed. But now, these thoughts…they’re disquieting. He doesn’t know why he’s getting so worked up about Preston. This is the kind of worked up he normally reserves for Ford. In fact, he’s ONLY ever felt it for Ford. Feeling this way about Preston…

“No,” Preston confirms with a croak, “I’m…I’m past that.”

Stan doubts him and it must show on his face, because Preston’s spine straightens, “I _am_ , Pines! Rafe was a fine…employee. But that’s all. It’s been years since our acquaintance. I no longer hold him in the same regard.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Somebody else you hold in that ‘regard’ now?” Stan asks, finger quoting the word ‘regard’ and, as if right on cue, Ford walks through the front door. Preston’s eyes go to him and, as always, they soften just that little bit. Yeah, Preston’s probably over Rafe. Mainly because now he ‘regards’ Ford. Poor bastard. Ford tosses his messenger bag to one side and grins at them, “Hey! What’s up?”

“Sixer,” Stan smirks, “I don’t even know where to start.”

“ _I_ do,” Preston intones gravely and he points at Stanley, “Your – your _mongrel_ of a brother has _ruined_ my LIFE!”

Ford’s eyebrows rise, “What?”

“Just ignore ‘im. He’s just gonna drama queen it up. I’ll tell you what happened,” Stan quickly relates the story albeit with some interruptions from Preston. They naturally come up when Stan describes Rafe as Preston ‘ex-boyfriend’ and again when Stan mentions how he ‘tactfully intervened to help Preston save face’. Ford listens to the entire tale with stunned, wide eyes, “Wow. Well, uh, that’s…”

He scratches at the back of his head and Stan goes over and takes one of his hands, swinging it a little, “Don’t worry, babe. Preston and me ain’t really datin’.”

This earns Stan his own eye roll from Ford, “Yes. I am well aware. Last I checked; you’re my boyfriend,” he then adds teasingly, “Last I _checked_ , that is.”

“Oh ho, I am still yours, Poindexter. Don’t ever doubt it,” Stan kisses Ford warmly and can practically feel the glare Preston is throwing his way. Game point, Stanley! Stan draws away and rubs a hand affectionately over Ford’s beanie, “But I don’t wantcha getting worried I’m looking elsewhere. Just easing any doubts you might have.”

“I trust you,” Ford promises him, “Doctor Braum says trust is the corner stone of any good relationship.”

The name of Ford’s therapist always makes Stan smile a little. Ford had been so resistant to the idea of seeing someone, of talking to them about his less than stellar past, that Stan feared he would never give it a real chance. Thankfully, with some research, Ford got lucky enough to find Doctor Braum. He sees her quite often and now tends to quote her almost religiously. He even jokingly refers to her as his ‘oracle’.

“Good! ‘Cause I might have to test that trust some, if you’re fine with it. I mean, like I told you – looks like I gotta play the part of Preston’s doting boy toy. That okay?”

“Well, I won’t be there to witness it,” Ford murmurs, “So; it’s not as if I’ll have to worry about possibly exposing you or reacting negatively to the whole farce. Not that I think I would, again, I do trust you. Besides, it’ll be good for Preston.”

“Good for me?” Preston moans loudly, “How on earth will it be ‘good’ for me? You sound like Rafe! He said love looks good on me and I am not, I repeat, NOT in love with Stanley!”

He spits out Stan’s name as if the very idea is an insult. Ford bristles slightly, “What’s wrong with Stanley? I date Stanley. He’s a great boyfriend!”

“Aw, you’re makin’ me blush, honey!” Stan coos and he tugs Ford back over, giving him several loud, wet kisses all over his face. Ford squirms and giggles and Preston just loudly bangs his forehead on the kitchen table. Hearing it, Ford reluctantly wriggles away from Stan. He sits down across from Preston and, seeing his hands outstretched on the table, he covers one with his own. Preston’s head slowly rises and Stan tries not to let out a belly laugh at the big red mark he’s now sporting from his over dramatics.

Ford, for his part, doesn’t look at all amused. He squeezes Preston’s hand and offers him a gentle smile, “Hey…you alright?”

Preston looks up and his eyes lock with Ford and Stan can damn near see the hearts in them from here. He scowls and crosses his arms, watching them as Ford whispers, “Doctor Braum says it’s difficult for us to confront our unresolved pasts, because we’ve dedicated ourselves to putting them behind us. Past is past, right? But, it can’t be. Not if it’s left unresolved. I’m sure today wasn’t easy for you.”

“No,” Preston breathes and he looks at Ford’s hand over his own. He turns it so that their palms meet, makes it so that they’re now casually clasping hands. Preston’s fingers link just that little bit with his, “It wasn’t.”

Ford edges closer, “Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to if-”

“Rafe was…an employee,” Preston interrupts, voice so soft as to be almost be inaudible, “I was…quite rude to him when first we met. He stood up to me. No one…no one had ever done that before, you see. Not really. Not like he did. And he was, well, he was a gardener. In fact, I believe I’ve even mentioned him to you before, I don’t know if you remember-?”

“I do. Your father fired him, right?”

Preston nods, “Yes, but before that, he…I learned a lot from him. About plants and flowers. To be honest, I loved them more than anything else. I still do. Frankly, I don’t know if I’ll ever love anyone or anything as much as I love…”

He trails off and his fingers are sort of playing with Ford’s. Stan reminds himself about that thing Ford said – that thing about trust. It’s really something he should adhere to himself. Just earlier he’d been thinking about how Preston’s doesn’t pose any kind of threat. And yet, here he stands, hands balled into fists at the sight of his brother and Northwest’s intertwined fingers. He rolls his head about his neck and takes a deep breath. _Don’t be a dick_ , _Stan_ , his thoughts hiss, _guy needs to talk this out and you need to listen._

“…anyway, Rafe and I became…very close. He was my first true friend. And then, as you recall, he was…let go from my family’s employ.”

“Any particular reason why?” Ford questions cautiously and Preston’s face takes on a pinker hue. Stan waits for him to admit it, waits for him to confess that they had some kinda torrid affair, but in classic Preston fashion, he doesn’t. He just shakes his head and loudly clears his throat, “No, um. Not…not really. But his tenure with us ended quite abruptly and I was unable to express my gratitude for his teachings.”

“That what you crazy kids calling it these days? ‘Teachings’?” Stan snorts and Ford shoots him a dark look. Stan holds up his hands in surrender. He can practically read Ford’s mind. It shouts at him about how he shouldn’t push this, how he shouldn’t push Preston into confessing anything if he’s not comfortable doing so. And Stan gets it, he really does. But it’s so damned obvious what happened and what’s happening currently.

Especially in light of the fact that he and Preston will soon be playing the part of happy couple.  Happy couple, yeah, sure. Right. It’s obvious whom Preston really wants to play happy couple with and Stan says at much, “Why don’t you just take Ford with you to the dinner? He’s obviously your favorite.”

The words come out far more bitterly than he would like, but Stan’s always been sensitive when it’s comes to comparisons between him and his twin. His whole life he’s struggled with the innate knowledge that Ford is viewed as his superior – the golden child. Sometimes he manages to overcome it, sometimes – like now – not so much.

And Preston is certainly not helping his insecurities, his fingers gripping Ford’s more securely, “Trust me, if that were possible, I would gladly do so! I would much rather fake a romantic entanglement with Stanford than you! But, unfortunately, that is not possible. Heaven help them, Rafe and Pierce have already witnessed you as you are! They’ve gazed upon _your_ brutish mug, _your_ grating voice and seen that _ridiculous_ hair of yours! Therefore Ford cannot play the part of your stand-in, regardless of your twin status!”

“Oh, hey – I got an idea! How’s about NO one play the part!” Stan shouts and immediately flips Preston off with both middle fingers. Preston releases Ford and jumps to his feet, knocking his chair over in a noisy clatter, “You want a fight, Pines? I am MORE than happy to accommodate you!”

“Bring it on, hotshot! I’ll take extreme pleasure in beating your _princely_ face in!”

“Guys! Hey, whoa! Stop!” Ford rises carefully, holding up his hands between them as if to physically push them apart, “Both of you need to calm down!”

“He started it,” Stan defends and Preston scoffs loudly, “Me? _You’re_ the one who-!”

“I don’t care,” Ford cuts in sharply and Stan’s reminded distinctly of Fidds. Fidds used to play the role of mediator between Stan and Ford when they occasionally tussled. Most of the time though, those were friendly (close to flirtatious) exchanges. This is steps away from being an all-out brawl.

Stan and Preston have fought physically before and sometimes Stan feels the itch to do so again. He’s beat Preston before, he can do it again, no problem. True, the guy’s got a bit more boxing skills than Stan’s ever given him credit for, but the day he can’t defeat this pretty rich boy, is the day he-!

“Stanley,” Ford disrupts his thoughts, “You will help Preston. He needs to speak with Rafe and you should help him to do that.”

“Ah ha!” Preston gloats but Ford immediately turns on him, “And you, Preston, will apologize to my brother.”

“What?! Why! He’s the one-!”

“Preston,” Ford repeats, perfectly nailing the scolding tone reserved solely for authority figures, “Apologize.”

“For?”

“Calling him a mongrel, a brute,” Ford explains calmly, “And for hurting his feelings.”

“Pshhh!” Stan blows a loud raspberry, “Sixer! He did not hurt my-!”

“Apologize,” Ford repeats, ignoring Stanley, still looking at Preston.

Northwest has the grace to look humbled, eyes averting Ford’s as he mumbles under his breath like a well scolded child, “Very well. I’m sorry.”

“What was that?”

One of the world’s most weary groans leaves Preston as he rolls his head about his neck. When he stops, he blinks as if to reset himself before he walks over to Stan. The two glare at one another for one hot heartbeat before Preston finally breathes out loudly and offers one hand, “Stanley, I apologize.”

Stan looks at the hand and contemplates smacking it away. But he catches sight of Ford and knows if he does there’ll be hell to pay. Swallowing down his pride, he takes the hand and gives it a shake. Ford beams and puts one hand on either of their shoulders, “See? Isn’t this nice? Friends, again!”

“Sure. Friends,” Stan smirks, his hand growing tighter in Preston’s grip, squeezing it with as much force as he can. Not to be topped; Preston squeezes back just as hard. Eventually Ford notices that the handshake has become a match in strength and he just sighs, “Stop.”

They let each other’s hands go reluctantly, both ignoring how the other was stronger than they anticipated. They also both avoid cradling the hand that has been slightly crushed by the other.

 

+

 

“He wasn’t my boyfriend,” Preston clarifies for Ford hours later. The trio took some time away from one another after the intense afternoon. Stan played with his guitar, Ford did some homework out on the futon and Preston did the same but in his own room. They regrouped for dinner and are now in the process of getting things in order for tomorrow.

It’s after ten, the sky outside pitch black and visible from Stan and Ford’s open window. A nice breeze is gusting through as Stan rifles through the closet he shares with his brother, trying to find something ‘suitable’ to wear. During dinner Preston began to question every single aspect of what was going to take place when they met up with Rafe and Pierce. What are they going to say, what are they going to do, what are they going to wear? Stan’s simple answer of ‘I’ll just wing it’ was met with high skepticism.

And amazingly enough, not just from Preston.

“You should go in with some kind of plan, Stanley,” Ford said, “After all, if you just come clean right away, Preston will be embarrassed. You put forth the idea you two are a couple, therefore you should do whatever you can to make it more credible. After all, what kind of shoddy con man goes in without a strategy?”

“You calling me a con man?”

“I don’t know. Are you?” Ford asked, but in a playful tone that led Stan to go out of his way to prove just what kind of man he is. Preston made sure to excuse himself once the two started damn near going at it. It’s something he’s had to put up with from day to day – the Pines twins and their endless make out sessions. Thankfully he’s thus far avoided seeing anything more, ah, risqué, but if he doesn’t know it’s only a matter of time, he’s fooling himself.

At least this is what Stan thinks. Even more so as he continues spouting off his lies about Rafe not being his boyfriend. But Stan keeps eavesdropping as Preston continues, “A boyfriend would imply that we dated. We…we didn’t date.”

“Okay,” Ford returns; tone relaxed but friendly. Preston must sense disbelief though, because he continues as if he has to explain himself, “But…I-I suppose…I mean, it would…most likely be pertinent to tell you both how it ended. It would help, ah, better establish our lies, yes? Not to mention that, were Stanley and I actually _in_ a committed relationship, I’m sure I would have told him about…about Rafe. Especially after we saw him today if I hadn’t already told him before that and I-”

“Preston, breathe,” Ford begs and Preston draws in a shaky breath. It’s obvious this is a nerve-racking moment for him and Stan can’t help but feel a little sympathetic. He even pauses in his search through the closet and silently offers up some secret strength, some support.

Preston can’t see his face, doesn’t know he’s offering it, but maybe it’s something he can sense because he continues, “Alright, alright…so, ah, Rafe and my…our-our acquaintanceship, our friendship…well, it-it became very close and you must understand, I’d never been terribly close with anyone in my life and growing up as I did, well it, was…I mean, to say it was stifling would be something of an understatement.”

 _Yeah, I’ll just bet_ , Stan doesn’t say.

“Rafe was kind to me. He taught me things and when I spoke, he actually listened and we spent so much time together and I, well, I-I,” Preston gulps and rubs at the back of his neck and Stan’s moments from telling him to just spit it out when he finally blurts, “I kissed him!”

The revelation comes out in a squeak and Preston clears his throat and tries again, voice deeper, “I kissed him. On – on the mouth, like, I, um…”

“I get it, Preston,” Ford reassures him and Preston relaxes marginally, “I’d never…never kissed a man before. Never thought to! And until the situation with you, I never kissed one again and you know I think it’s possible for you to kiss a man and not necessarily be a homosexual, not that there’s anything at all wrong with homosexuality but I myself am not…I’m not!”

“Pres,” Ford stops him with a gentle hand to his shoulder, “Can I ask you something?”

He gets a weak nod.

“You know about Stanley and I; you know we’re together, you don’t have a problem with us being gay. So, why do you take such issues with the idea of being gay yourself?”

“I’m not-!”

“Oh, for the love of-! You KISSED a GUY,” Stan roars and turns to look at them both, “That’s PRETTY GAY.”

“ _Stanley_!” Ford gasps and Preston just shrinks, looks more miserable, “Yes, yes. I…I suppose it is. I suppose…”

He rubs at his face and Stan’s feels a sharp stab right in the center of his gut. Oh god. Oh no. Is…is Northwest going to cry? Is he going-? And he’s pulling that damned wounded animal face again and this time _Stanley_ caused it. Anger and shame both well up inside of Stan and the last thing he wants is to feel this wretched.

He walks over and sits on the mattress next to the two of them. He coughs gruffly into one hand and then pats Preston’s back, “Uh, hey. There, there. Don’t…don’t get all worked up about it. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?!” Preston seethes, voice icy, and Stan remembers immediately what an extremely dumb thing that is to say. He goes to take it back, but Preston’s ire is up, “You and your brother may have the luxury of being as you wish, but I do not. I am a Northwest and my father has told me repeatedly and as explicitly as possible that as a Northwest I must uphold our family honor! You want to hear the rest of the story?”

He asks it as if they’re threatening him to tell, “I kissed Rafe! I went and foolishly kissed him, because I felt so close to him, because I liked him, because I…” he trails off, looking helpless before he finds his footing again, picking up with, “And then my father arrived. He caught us. He intervened. He sent Rafe away and he–then he–he–!”

Preston’s tripping over his words this way…Stan recognizes it. He looks at Ford and recognizes it immediately and feels worse than ever before. Preston’s eyes are slightly glazed and he blinks viciously and then he sort of – well, it’s almost like he physically snaps. The tears disappear and he sits up straight and he looks super polished, as if he wasn’t just terribly emotional. It’s like watching an actor prep for a scene, mask in place, “Suffice it to say, he made it very clear that it was unseemingly to engage in such behavior. I did not see Rafe after that. In fact, I did not see him again until today.”

The two Pines twins absorb this news and Preston runs a hand through his hair, “So, to answer your question. While I have no problem with others being gay it’s not…not something I can be. No, actually, it would be more apt to say it is something I choose _not_ to be.”

“I…don’t think that’s a decision you can make,” Ford argues, but Preston looks unmoved, arms crossed, “We’ve gotten completely off track. We are supposed to be discussing our plans in regards to the dinner tomorrow. Stanley? I believe you were in the process of picking out a suitable outfit.”

“Oh, um, yeeeeah,” Stan drags out the last word and goes to rise and return to the closet to continue his search, but Preston’s words still bother him. He scratches at one side of his face, “Hey, Pres, look…I’m – I’m sorry.”

Preston arches one eyebrow perfectly, “For?”

Stan tries to figure out which thing to apologize for and finally settles on, “I dunno. Everything?”

“No apology is necessary,” is the response he gets, but Stan’s not so sure. He goes back to the closet, deciding that settling on clothing and offering up some distraction is probably the best course of action. He fishes through and draws out a green flannel shirt and some jeans and Preston rises up behind him, eyeing his choices, “Oh no! That will never do!”

 _He’s back_ , Stan thinks, even as he turns to him with a frown, “Why not?”

“I would never date someone who dresses so…so urban,” Preston wrinkles his nose and looks at the piles of clothes, “Don’t you have anything finer? Maybe a cardigan?”

“Ford has a coupla of those.”

“Of course he does,” Preston sighs dreamily and Stan rolls his eyes, “Well, why don’t I just dress up as Ford and pretend ta be him, since that’s what you want? I can impersonate him to a ‘T’.”

Stan grabs one of Ford’s beanies and slaps it on his head, then grabs one of his shirts and holds it in front of himself. He crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue, “Duh, I’m Stanford Pines! I’m a genius and I hog all the bed covers! I have about fifty journals and they’re all filled with dorky scribbles! Dur, dur!”

“Stanley, I’m in the room,” Ford points out dryly and Stan just chuckles as he takes the beanie off. He tosses it at Ford, “How’d I do?”

“Terrible. I don’t sound like that! And I _don’t_ hog the covers!”

“Oh ho, okay,” Stan volleys back with a smirk, “Although you are right. Forgot to capture how much you like my dick in that re-enactment.”

Preston and Ford both pale equally and Stan feels rejuvenated, rubbing his hands together, “Now! How’s about we find something suitable, huh? I’m sure there’s gotta be something in here worthy of his majesty.”

“I could always buy you something,” Preston volunteers but Stan shakes his head, “Nope. You already are gonna be paying for dinner. And I plan on feasting like a king!”

“Shouldn’t you pay for yourself? Isn’t that the commoner’s way?” Preston jokes and Stan balks, “I don’t pay on dates – what is this? Russia? You’re paying for us both! And there’s no way on earth I’m having you cram me into some polo shirt. Here, how’s about this?”

Stan pulls out a crimson fez with a golden emblem on it and slaps it on. Ford sees it and his eyes widen, “Hey! That’s dad’s!”

“Yup! Took it back when we first moved out! Thought you knew I had it?”

“No! Oh god, Stanley, if he ever finds out he’ll _kill_ you! Dad loves that stupid thing!”

“It’s not stupid,” Stan argues, “It’s classy! ‘Sides, pops hasn’t worn it in ages. He’ll never miss it. So? How’s this, my prince? I look like a regular Doctor What?”

“Doctor who?” Preston asks, lost, but he just shakes his head, “No, no, no! Look, take that atrocious thing off and be serious, will you?”

This gets a hefty sigh, but Stan takes the fez off. He digs deeper and finds a suit and bolo tie. He holds them up and Preston gives a nod, “Those will do.”

“Great! Haven’t worn these old duds in years. Probably’ll be uncomfortable as hell,” he gripes, looking Preston up and down, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well, I’d never date somebody who dresses so prissy,” Stan argues, “I gotta change my act, so do you.”

“How on earth would you like me to dress?” Preston gasps, as if asking for this is completely unreasonable. Stan looks through the closet and then sees something that makes the most evil smile take his face. He draws out a hefty black leather jacket and Preston looks as if Stan’s just slapped him, “No…no! You can’t _possibly_ be serious!”

“C’mon, give it a try!” Stan teases and he waggles the jacket at him. Preston eyes it speculatively as if it will bite him, “I’m not touching that – that _thing_! It looks diseased!”

“It’s justa leather jacket, Preston! Don’t be such a pussy!” Again Stan speaks this way to specifically get a reaction and Preston doesn’t disappoint. He looks horrified and Stan feels better, lighter. This is how Preston should be – happy. Well, sort of happy. Not sad, to be sure. Not angry – although the right kind of anger is always entertaining.

Preston takes the jacket carefully, still looking unhappy to have it close to him. Stan just gives him a big, bright grin, “There! Now we’ll both make more sense together!”

Preston just hums, obviously not believing that that’s true. Ford looks at them and nods, “Okay, so – you’ve got your outfits picked. But what about your story? You said Pierce asked how you met. So? How did you two meet? How did you get to this point?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Stan shrugs, “We go with the truth as much as possible. All of the best cons are based in a bit of fact.”

“Stanley, do you even _remember_ how you and I met?”

“Suuuure,” Stan drags the word out and it’s clear he really doesn’t. Preston lets out a groan, “Here, let me remind you…”


	3. Chapter 3

**THEN**

Preston catches sight of Stanford Pines sitting outside of the Science Center and feels his blood boil. He knows it shouldn’t, he should have no reaction – blood dedicated or otherwise –  to Stanford. He shouldn’t care less about that – that peon! That insufferable, six-fingered peasant, who sits there reading as the wind gently plays with the fringes of his hair…

…that soft, warm brown hair. And his eyes – clear and bright and richly brown. They’re focused downwards as he reads, as he flips through his book so simply, so contently, completely absorbed in it. He sits there and looks so…so…

Preston feels his jaw tighten, that boiling blood trying to travel to regions it shouldn’t, and his heart is beating so hard. All of it makes him angrier, so angry he can’t even see straight. So he charges over to Ford and knocks the book from his hands as hard as he can. The book skitters across the smoothly paved pathway and Ford looks up with a frown, “Hey! What-?!”

“Well, well, well – if it isn’t Fordsy,” Preston mocks, happy with how light and airy he sounds, “Having fun?”

“I was,” Ford mutters and he reaches for his book but Preston quickly kicks it out of reach. Ford glares at him, “Don’t you have something better to do, Preston?”

“Hardly,” Preston sniffs when he knows, if point of fact, that he does. But for some reason he can’t seem to make himself leave. It’s almost as if he…he enjoys being around Ford Pines. Which he doesn’t. Obviously. Ford is a fool and beneath him and paying this sort of attention to him…it’s merely because he’s asserting his superiority. Yes, that’s it! It’s important for people to know their place!

He’s sure his father would approve. Not to mention maybe, just maybe, if he continues along this route, he’ll be able to get his ridiculous body in order. The way he’s physically reacting to Ford is unbecoming. And not just because he’s a man; although that is a big part of it. He sneers, “I find it’s my duty to remind you, yet again, that you are unwelcome here.”

“Here as in out front of the Science Center or here as in-?”

“Here as in anywhere!” Preston snaps, “The rest of us shouldn’t have to be afflicted with the sight of you and your,” he directs his gaze to Ford’s fingers, “abnormalities.”

“They’re just fingers, Preston,” Ford answers, but his tone tells Preston he’s hit his mark. He’s hurt him. Good. _Good_ , he thinks, even as he feels this odd pull in his gut. In his…no, no, no – not his heart. There are no feelings in his heart whatsoever and as Ford rises and goes for his book again, Preston kicks it even farther away, “Hmm, yes, I suppose you could call those weird tentacles fingers if you truly wished to. But why would you? It would be more appropriate to refer to them as something else, yes? Maybe you can find a good definition in the Science Center. I don’t think tentacles quite fits, although they _do_ look rather sticky and unpleasant.”

“I don’t have sticky fingers.”

“Don’t _all_ people from _Jersey_ have sticky fingers?”

“Are you trying to imply that everyone from the state of New Jersey is a thief?” Ford scoffs, “Not a very impressive insult, Preston. Looks like you’re losing your edge. Not that you were very original in your bullying to begin with.”

It’s the first time Ford’s ever really stood up to him in any capacity and Preston feels light headed. Light headed and sort of…of, okay, not _aroused_ , but something else equally inappropriate. He reaches down and takes big handfuls of Ford’s shirt and draws him up to his eyes. He wants to hit Ford in the face, right in that cleft chin, when suddenly a voice roars out, “HEY!”, and the next thing Preston knows, he’s being yanked off by some huge, burly monster.

The monster knocks him to the ground and he lets out a yelp, elbows and ass hitting the ground roughly. The monster is all over Ford, brushing at his shoulders and asking if he’s okay. Maybe it would be better to define the monster as a gorilla. He’s certainly hairy enough. His hair is long, well past his ears. Even his arms are covered in hair and he’s wearing a construction outfit of all things – damned yellow hardhat included. He turns to glare at Preston and Preston almost swallows his own tongue.

The monster – it’s Ford! But it’s not Ford. Some of the facial features are distinctly familiar, but there are vast differences. Especially in the eyes. Ford’s eyes are warm, this cretin’s eyes are hot. They’re full of fire, fire that _burns_. Fire that makes Preston’s blood act even more erratic and unnatural. It floods to pool right between his legs and he curses under his breath.

The creature thrusts a big finger in his face, “I take it yer Northwest, huh? Well, you better lay offa my brother before I flatten you!”

“Brother?” Preston repeats stupidly and Ford reaches out and takes its arm, “C’mon, Stan…he’s not worth it.”

“Stan?” he asks, still feeling dumb as he looks between the two of them, his eyes eventually settling on the Ford he knows better, “But…you’re Stan?”

“HE’S Stanford, I’M Stanley, and YOU’RE dead meat if you ever touch him again!” Stan growls into Preston’s face and Ford is still tugging at him. Stan eventually surrenders, but not before first making sure to spit near Preston’s feet. He picks up Ford’s book and hands it to him, and the look in his eyes as he gazes at his twin…

Preston watches them walk off together and frowns, still stunned. Two of them. There are TWO of them. Stanford AND Stanley Pines. To think…Ford has a twin. A big, dumb, sweaty twin with massive arms and long hair and eyes that _burn_. And his voice! That deep (sexy) rumbling voice…

Preston gets to his feet and vows to do his utmost best to hate both of them equally. Yes, hate! That is the only emotion either of them will ever garner from him, the only one they deserve. He swears it to himself, swears it on his honor as a Northwest. He’ll hate those two forever.

 

 

**NOW**

“I still don’t get what’s wrong with that story,” Stan argues as he checks himself in the bathroom mirror again. He’s struggling with his bolo tie and frowning, feeling like his fingers are big, fat sausages; completely inept at this particular task. He’s sure he’s tied this thing before, but right now it seems impossible. It’s bad enough he’s got this monkey suit on, but to wear a tie too…

He struggles with it, choking slightly as he tugs it this way and that. Preston answers, voice coming from around the corner from where he is in his own room, “Are you joking? You threw me to the ground, you _threatened_ me! How is that a good story to tell? Not to mention it in no way highlights why you and I would have become a couple. I mean, my god, I don’t even know _how_ that would have happened. You and I, coming together…”

“But it _is_ how we met,” Stan mutters, “And, like I’ve said, it’s best to stick as close to the truth as possible. Not to mention it’s not like you and Rafe had an excellent introduction. From what little you’ve said, you two butted heads first before you were sharin’ forbidden kisses. Maybe that’s just your kink, huh?”

“My-my-what?” is gasped and Stan smirks because, really, this is probably the thing he likes about Preston the most. He’s so easy to unnerve. For someone so rich and reportedly ‘worldly’, the guy’s actually pretty naïve, innocent. It’s oddly endearing and certainly fun, so he just keeps pushing him, “A kink. Y’know – what gets ya all hot an’ bothered. Or maybe it’d be better to say your _type_. Rafe’s clearly got one – he likes wealthy, entitled lil’ shits. You? You like guys who’ll stand up to you, put you in your place…Oh! Oh, I got it!”

He stops fiddling with his tie long enough to find Preston, who is regarding his own clothing choices with dismay. He has several shirts laid out on his bed but is eyeing each of them distastefully. Probably because none of them are polos or button ups. They’re just plain, regular shirts. High quality, yes, but shirts that Preston owns and has never worn. Mainly because they’re so – so _pedestrian_!

Stan nudges him with one elbow and he almost seems relieved to be distracted from the chore of picking something to wear. That is, until he recognizes that this is _Stanley_ distracting him. Stanley who looks like a cat who’s eaten the canary, “I know what we can tell ‘em for how we met! We can tell them you were looking for a Dom and I came to call! You’re rich; you’re the Casey Grey type, right? Love that abuse masqueradin’ as BDSM tripe in that one book. Y’know – the stupid one that made a lot of money and movies nobody watched.”

“Pines, I have no idea on earth what you are talking about!”

“Fifty-three and a half Shades! That’s the title…I think…”

“ _I_ think you are a moron!” Preston cries, glaring at him, “We are NOT telling them that we met in some-some sort of wacky, exhibitionist fashion! I am not – not some heathen with – with _kinks_ ,” the last word hisses from between his teeth as if even trying to imply that he has kinks is beyond reproach, “I am a Northwest and I am perfectly respectable, composed, and appropriate at _all_ times! And I will not have you sully my good reputation with such fabricatio – good lord, _stop_!”

The last is said more with actual sincere pleading, as Stan’s taken to struggling with his tie again. Preston pinches the bridge of his nose and looks pained. He draws in a ragged breath and shakes his head, muttering under his breath before he looks at Stan with determination. He smacks his hands away from the tie and takes it into his own hands, smoothly and swiftly adjusting it, “Honestly, you and your brother both! Neither of you seems to have the skills necessary of a proper gentleman!”

“My brother?”

“Yes, I had to tie his tie for him once as well. How you two managed to escape learning such an essential task is beyond me. I had this skill mastered by the time I was four,” the words come so easily but Stan catches it. That little grimace. By the time he was _four_? Jesus Christ! What kind of parent makes a kid barely out of being a toddler learn to tie a _tie_?

But it’s obvious Preston isn’t bluffing. He has the bolo tie set within a matter of seconds and then he’s looking into Stan’s face. He pauses and seems taken aback for a moment, as if he’s just realized how closely he’s gotten into Stan’s personal space. Stan’s eyebrows rise as Preston just keeps…looking. He’s not sure what he sees, but he notices with vast amusement that his cheeks have taken on color.

Holy shit…does Preston think he’s attractive? Well, duh. Of course he does, he looks an awful lot like Ford, doesn’t he? And how Preston feels about Ford is clear as day. Stan doesn’t know why that bothers him so much. The idea that Preston wouldn’t find him desirable on his own. Why on earth would he want Preston to find him attractive? Stan’s with Ford, he loves Ford. He doesn’t have room for anyone else…right?

And even if he did, Ford would never…

“Alright, alright! I’m good,” he growls with more force than necessary as he backs away from Preston, who still looks a little bewildered. Desperate for a subject change, Stan looks at the shirts, “You pick one yet?”

This seems to snap Preston out of it, “Ah, no. No, this is proving to be a more difficult endeavor than I envisioned.”

“Hard to pick out something without a collar, huh?” Stan teases and Preston just grumbles. Stan grins as a stroke of genius hits him, “Wait! Hold on!”

He dashes into his room and practically dives into a pile of clothes. Ford is in the room, but doesn’t look up from his laptop, evidently used to this sort of mania from his twin. Stan tosses items left and right, searching wildly. Come on; come on…where is it? When he finally finds it he quickly returns to Preston, tossing the shirt right into his rich boy face, “There ya go! Perfect!”

Stan earns a scowl for the shirt toss and an even worse one when Preston unfurls the white wad of clothing to see the front. He looks at it, completely aghast, “What in god’s name is _this_ monstrosity?”

“It’s my band shirt!” Stan says with glee, “Rick made it for me when we were on the road!”

It’s a very crudely printed picture of a rather silly dollar bill. In the center is a badly drawn cartoon of Stan’s face that proclaims the bill is money. It has cash signs on it and it is one of the worst things Preston has ever had the displeasure of seeing in his entire life. He makes sure to say as much, “I have no words – this is…horrible. Ghastly. And you expect me to wear this?”

“Yer my boyfriend, right? You support me,” Stan coos and nudges him and Preston crumples up the shirt, looking beyond miserable. It makes Stan’s suit actually fit a little more comfortably, knowing Preston will feel just as awkward as him. Good. Nice. This is how it should be. All that weird stuff earlier…ugh.

No, no. Stan would much rather feel this way and he grins jovially at Preston, “C’mon, sweetie! Wear my shirt, pretty please?”

He bats his eyelashes at him and Preston inhales loudly, as if this is an indignity not to be borne, “Don’t call me ‘sweetie’.”

“Sugar lips? Honey butt? Candy tits?” Each nickname earns its own look of disapproval and Stan is feeling leagues better. Preston goes to remove his current shirt but then, in a moment of true self-consciousness, he looks at Stanley, tips of his ears bright red, “Would you kindly leave? I need to change.”

“Baby, you know they’re gonna think I’ve seen you naked before, right?” he leers at him, “No way am I dating you and not getting a piece of that ass. And I’d be getting a piece, seeing as you’re the bottom in our-”

“GET. OUT.” Preston bites out each word as he practically shoves Stanley out. He slams his bedroom door behind him as if to emphasis his point. Stan just laughs and leans up against it, “Childish.”

“Screw you!” he hears from the other side and Stan rolls his eyes, “Make sure you put on the jeans.”

A whine issues from Preston followed by a wounded, “Must I?”

“Pres, you have like – a million pairs.”

“Yes, but I never truly expected I’d have to _wear_ any of them.”

“Then why’d you buy them?”

“Do you truly expect me to answer that question?”

Not really. Stan can’t even imagine what it would be like to have that much money. To have so much that you could spend it on whatever you want, whenever you want. Although now he’s come to learn that nothing in life is actually free. Obviously strings are attached, even for someone like Preston. He’s still a little hung up on his comment about the tie and it leads him back to Preston’s earlier revelation – that Rafe and Preston’s relationship fell apart due to his father.

What exactly is Mr. Northwest like? In some ways, he seems very similar to his own father and yet…

Okay, in no way and in no fashion is Stanley ever going to excuse Filbrick Pines behavior. That said, the man left both he and Ford alone for most of their childhood – he certainly wasn’t having them learn about ‘being a gentlemen’. He also has since loosened his grip, regulating them towards not even worth his notice since they’d last spoken to him. But Preston’s father…Stan knows they talk each and every Friday.

What do they talk about? Is Mr. Northwest merely keeping tabs on his son or is he just that controlling? Does he view Preston as some bit of property? A bauble on a shelf that he must occasionally take down just to check on, just to make sure it’s in what he considers to be proper working order? Stan chews over this and then, having a more cheery thought, knocks on the door behind him, “Hey! Don’t forget about the leather jacket too. I know it’s in there.”

The sigh that answers him is terribly weighted and he smirks, thinking again about how much fun this is going to be. He’s proud of himself for getting Preston to dress more casual. Especially since it obviously pains him so. Not to mention fair is fair. He tugs at his own collar with a glower; he couldn’t imagine wearing a suit and tie every day.

Just as he’s at the point of wondering what’s taking so flipping long the door behind him opens and he falls backwards. Stan lets out an inelegant cry and completely expects to hit the floor when strong hands catch him beneath his arms. He looks up to see Preston’s face peering over his and Preston looks…different. His carefully styled hair is falling in front of his forehead a little more than usual and he has the leather jacket collar popped up so that it frames his face, sort of highlighting those ridiculous cheekbones of his.

He looks…wow.

“Wow,” Stan blurts and Preston’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, like he has no idea why Stan would say that or look at him this way, but…

It doesn’t get any better when Preston helps him to stand upright. Stan turns and looks and Preston is…

…Christ.

Alright, so he was already aware that Preston Northwest’s good looking. He’s not _blind_. He’s really good looking. Like, cover model quality. Prince Charming quality. Famous actor quality. But this has always been marred by his being an asshole. Being an asshole always made him ugly. But now? Now that the asshole is dropping away and he’s becoming more…human?

It’s unfair.

It’s unfair to the rest of the world to look like this, be rich, AND be a good guy. It’s also unfair for him to currently be dressed in something Stan picked out and look so fucking _sexy_ in it. Because sexy is really the only word to describe it. He’s got on the leather jacket, the tight, skinny jeans and the shirt. He’s wearing _Stan’s_ shirt. And there’s this terrible heat that’s engulfing Stan’s face and he knows he _has_ to be blushing, that it _has_ to be visible.

But even if it is, Preston is too distracted to make fun of him for it. Instead he’s looking like a little kid who’s been forced into a suit. Or, more accurately, a rich little kid who’d been forced into perfectly comfortable clothing, “I look like a _greaser_.”

The word comes out with such disdain that Stan can’t help but snort, “Nothing wrong with that. I’ve always had a bit of a thing for that. Even tried to rock that look for a while, but I don’t think it quite worked. Might’a been all the damned acne.”

Preston looks like he wants to protest more, but then Ford walks out of his and Stan’s room. His eyes are _still_ affixed to his laptop and he raises his head as if to say something when he stops and looks almost exactly the way Stan did upon first sight of Preston, “Wow.”

“I know, right!” Stan smacks Preston so hard on the back that the other boy moves under it, “I cleaned him up real good! Got him pulling a Brendon Urie sorta look.”

“A who?” Preston asks and Ford smirks, “Panic at the Disco singer – even I know that one.”

At Preston’s still quizzical look Stan groans, “You’ve still got so much to learn! C’mon, we need to get going to this thing. I got the address and junk in my texts.”

“What? No! We can’t go yet!” Preston cries, looking panicked, “We – we don’t have all our facts straight! I have no idea yet why you and I would be a couple! We have no story to substantiate how we moved from rivals to lovers and why-!”

“So, we’re lovers, are we?” Stan growls the words suggestively just to see Preston react. As always, he does not disappoint. His eyes get all shifty and he sort of trembles and Stan laughs, vastly amused as always, “Look, I toldja. The closest to the truth as possible. We’ll tell ‘em how you and Ford became all buddy-buddy and I took off. How you came to get me to help Ford. But that’s where it’ll change. We can just say that when you and me met up, we hit it off. Y’know, after our fight.”

Both Preston and Ford look skeptical and Stan sighs. Amateurs. How can neither of them not have the creativity to construct lies over top of the facts? Stan shows them how it’s done, “We fought, right? We keep that part. Again, as close to the truth as possible. We fought, we made up, we got shitfaced with Rick. We got to talking about Ford, connected over that, then we did a buncha wild shit and ended up in bed together. But, y’know, in this scenario, when we ended up in bed together it was more serious.”

“Wait…you two were in bed together?” Ford asks and Stan pulls a face, remembering that his brother didn’t actually _know_ that part. He scratches at the back of his head, chagrined, “Ahhhh…yeeeeah. We did. But it wasn’t what you think, Sixer. We were fully clothed. Just…in bed together. Kinda snuggling. Little bit. Trust me, I tossed him to the floor the moment I realized it.”

“Yes. I remember.” Preston sniffs, as if this memory still personally offends him. Ford, for his part, doesn’t look upset so much as bewildered, “How did you end up in bed together?”

“That…well, um,” Stan shifts from foot to foot, feeling extremely uncomfortable, “That night’s still a bit hazy ta be honest. I told you that. And time certainly hasn’t helped to clear it up. But trust me; this is the best story to go with.”

“What? The one where I – I throw myself at you after an over indulgence in spirits and the possible ingestion of illicit drugs?” Preston practically wails, obviously reaching a new level of scandalized. Stan can’t help but laugh, “See? You’re getting it! Even added your own bit to the story.”

“What?”

“Well, I never _said_ you threw yourself at me. But if that’s how _you_ remember it…” Stan trails off into hearty laughter as Preston’s jaw actually drops. Apparently he was unaware himself how he added on to the scenario. If he was a cartoon character, Stan’s sure he’d see steam coming from his ears and this thought just serves to make him laugh harder.

Ford puts down his laptop and crosses his arms, eyeing Stan thoughtfully, “So, you two bonding over me – fact or fiction?”

This immediately kills Stan’s laughter and returns him to his discomfort, “Oh! Um…think that’s fact? Again…sorta misty.”

Ford just hums and Stan collects him close, kisses him, “You mad, baby?”

“Of course not,” Ford sighs and gives him a kiss, “More curious than anything. Call it the investigative scientist in me. After all, chemistry is a highly fascinating subject. You and I share it, obviously. And I believe that Preston and I click on certain levels as well. So, the idea of the two of you clicking…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Stan releases Ford, feeling squirrely, “There isn’t gonna be any ‘clicking’ between me and Northwest. This is just a con. This is just to help him like you asked me to.”

“Yes, but what if you’re required to do more?  You asked for my trust and I’ve given it to you. It would be naïve of me not to consider the possibility that you two may have to portray the common traits found in most couples, such as kissing.”

This causes an unbelievable uproar from both Stanley and Preston. They’re pretty much shouting over top of one another. Preston is adamant that that won’t be necessary and Stan is just as firm, arguing that he’ll be ‘cuddly’, but that’s where he’s drawing the line. Ford watches them both protest and his eyebrows rise higher and higher at their vehemence. Doctor Braum would have a field day with this. Part of him thinks maybe he should be worried or possibly be jealous, but honestly?

He’s just amused. His sessions with Braum have really expanded his view on the world and on relationships. So much so that his normal insecurities are overridden with more curiosity. _Curiosity is a good gateway to exploration, to understanding_ , Doctor Braum once told him, _but it must never become an obsession. Let it flow through you, let it open you to new worlds, new possibilities, but never let it control you._

Letting it control him would no doubt be asking them to let him shadow them on their date, which he’s almost tempted to do. Or, better yet, questioning them more on why they’re both objecting this so much. What’s that old quote? The lady doth protest too much? Clearly these two ‘ladies’ are protesting too much.

Still, Ford waves his hands to quiet them, “Look, look – all I’m saying is, is that if you DO have to kiss or participate in some other form of affection, I’m okay with it,” he then adds, “Within reason.”

“Within reason?” Preston repeats, voice high pitched and strained beyond belief. Stan, however, does what he always does when confronted with something awkward. He switches to the defense of humor, “So, you’re saying I can lay a big one on Preston – all tongue heavy – but I can’t give him a handjob in a back alley?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” Ford supplies, crossing his arms and looking sly, because he recognizes Stan’s normal tactics and enjoys them. Preston, on the other hand, is getting more and more wound up as Stan continues, “I take it bathroom BJs are out too?”

“Yes.”

“What about straight up sex in the back seat of my car? Or, better yet, I could just bend Preston over the hood and, in front of everybody, just pound him within an inch of his-!”

“Stanley, stop. He’s going to implode,” Ford remarks dryly, forking a thumb over in Preston’s direction and yes, Preston does indeed look like he’s going to burst. Stan sees it and chuckles and Ford joins him. The twins both giggle while Preston slowly deflates. He glares at them both with as much anger as he can muster, “I should have stuck to my vow to hate you both equally forever!”

“Oh, but then you’d’ve missed out on all this fun, tasty toes!”

“Argh! These…these endearments you come up with are appalling! My toes are _not_ tasty!”

“How do you know? Maybe later we’re gonna shower together and I’ll get you all nice and clean and suck on them,” Stan offers and even as Preston takes on a magenta hue, he turns to Ford and asks, “That something I can do?”

“If you want,” Ford says incredulously, “Me, I prefer attention on my hands.”

“Do you?” Stan asks as if he doesn’t know. He takes one of Ford’s hands in his and kisses it. The sound that comes out of Ford is pretty indecent and Preston’s color returns to normal as he grabs Stan roughly by his shirt collar and tugs, voice hefty with regret, “Come. Let us get this over with.”

Stan gives Ford a wink and Ford just waves as the two leave. Once they’re out of the apartment, he picks up his laptop, whistling to himself as he sits on the couch. Boy; is he in for hearing a _great_ story tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh…now, this can’t be right,” Preston says with a frown, “Check your phone again.”

“I did and I’m tellin’ ya, this is it,” Stan grumbles, shoving his cell into Preston’s face. Preston checks the phone, glaring at the address displayed on the screen and then looks at the building in front of them. He looks at the street signs then the phone again. He repeats this action a few times until Stan finally snaps, “Preston, this is the place!”

“But…but this isn’t a restaurant at all! This is – this is a nightclub!” he gasps the last as if Rafe and Pierce asked them to meet up at some unsavory place. _Well, maybe to him, it IS unsavory_ , Stan thinks even as he asks, “That a problem?”

“No.”

His voice is not very convincing. Stan rubs at his eyes, “I take it you’ve never been to one?”

“No, actually, I’ve been to quite a few,” Preston sneers, “Some of my other wealthy compatriots like to frequent these establishments. They’d book private booths, rooms – anything to one up each other in showmanship.”

“You never did that?”

“On the contrary, I once bought out an entire club for an evening,” he boasts, arms crossed, “No one bests a Northwest. I demonstrated my ability to throw the most lavish of parties, but that’s beside the point - this was to be a nice, quiet evening between two couples. Not a display in extravagance. I bet _Pierce_ planned this!”

“Makes sense,” Stan can’t help but goad him on, “You and Piercey are two peas in a pod. Northwest, Montgomerys – trust fund kids with too much money to burn. God only knows how guys like me and Rafe get tossed into the mix.”

“Rafe and I.”

“Y’know, it’s funny – thought I just heard Ford here. Heard him sayin’ ‘grammar, Stanley’ but somehow it came out prissier, more irritatin’ if that’s possible…”

“I will tell him you said that!”

“Tattletale,” Stan nudges him before he starts marching towards the nightclub. There’s a pretty hefty line out front, but Stan’s more than used to skipping to the front. Preston’s not the only person he knows who’s bought out a club – although Rick tended to do it for an entirely different reason. A reason that involved a lot of sweat and lube and frankly Stan hopes there’s not an orgy awaiting them inside. He always prided himself on steering clear of those because they were a bit…overwhelming. Especially with Rick being the host (and center of attention).

Thankfully it appears the nightclub is running on normal parameters, and when they reach the bouncer at the front door he takes one look at them and lifts his shades, “Northwest and Pines?”

Preston and Stan share a look, both a bit surprised to be recognized, but merely offer confirming nods. The bouncer steps back and waves them in. The nightclub is the usual – booming music, lights, and clusters of people. It’s a bit hard to coordinate and communicate. Stan finds Preston trailing after him, letting him take the lead. This is funny, because to be honest, Stan has no idea what he’s doing.

He doesn’t know where the hell Pierce and Rafe are in this madhouse. Frankly he’s as frustrated as Preston in their meeting here. He too, would have preferred a quieter meeting place and he gets the impression that Preston wasn’t all that far off base thinking Pierce is behind this. He doesn’t know the guy very well, barely spoken to him, but he gets the impression that Pierce is an earlier model of Preston.

So, y’know, an ass.

Why Rafe’s attracted to this type, Stan has no idea. Maybe he has some sorta wounded bird syndrome? He thinks that, deep down, all rich guys are secretly in need of some polishing up? That they might start off as dicks, but eventually can be good guys? Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe he’s just a gold digger, in which case, Stan can understand. Given the right circumstances, he could easily see himself falling into that role. After all, money is extremely attractive.

Either way, he’s sure by the end of the night he’ll have the two of them pegged. It doesn’t take Stanley Pines long to figure out what makes a person tick. Most people aren’t as layered as they’d like to think. It doesn’t take him long to spot them. They’re out on the dance floor and, to be fair, they look happy to be there. To be together.

They make a handsome couple, arms wrapped around one another, hips grinding as the bass thumps all around them. Preston catches sight of them and Stan takes the time to covertly watch him, to measure his reaction. He looks…intrigued. Which is interesting; Stan was expecting hurt. He was expecting that Preston was lying when he said he's over Rafe. Although, when Pierce draws Rafe close, whispers something in his ear and the other laughs, Stan catches a sense of wistfulness.

Stan can almost hear Preston’s thoughts – maybe in another life, another universe. Maybe some other time, some other world – he would be the one holding Rafe in his arms, he would be the one making Rafe smile. But he’s not. Pierce is and then, as if to drive this point home, Pierce looks up and catches their eyes. No, more directly, he catches _Preston’s_ eyes.

And Stan sees it there – sees that challenge. But it’s gone as quick as it came, Pierce and Rafe back to dancing and showering attention upon each other as if there’s no one else, as if no one is watching and they’re blissfully alone. The music switches over, becomes less clubby and more poppy. The song playing has a catchy beat and Preston’s almost nodding to himself as he steps forward, coming out of Stan’s shadow as he thrusts out one hand, “Come,”

Stan’s eyebrows knit together even as he takes Preston’s hand, “What?”

“We’re dancing.”

“Whoa, whoa – hang up a second. Who am I? Beyoncé? I ain’t doing that!”

“Don’t be ridiculous! No one is Beyoncé BUT Beyoncé and yes, you are!”

“I’m not,” Stan practically digs in his heels to keep Preston from taking him out to the glowing dance floor, “I don’t-!”

His words cut off and his hands start to sweat as they struggle to pull from Preston’s grip. There’s an anxious thudding in his chest and he doesn’t want to admit to anything, but finds he has no choice, “I don’t know how to dance.”

Preston looks stunned, “You’re a musician!”

“Yeah, a _musician_. I play an _instrument_. I don’t _dance_. Even when I was touring with Rick, we didn’t _dance_. You get up on the stage, you play your guitar, you sway a bit – you don’t – y’know, do any complicated steps or nothing,” Stan looks around at the couples that are dancing, “I mean, yeah, most of these people ain’t dancing either, so much as dry humpin’ in public, but I’m not gonna -!”

Preston tugs a little harder, drags him the last few feet and they’re in an open space. Somehow a space has opened up on the dance floor and Stan feels like a spotlight is directly on him. And, okay, it’s not that he _can’t_ dance necessarily, so much as he’s uncomfortable moving his body around in front of strangers. Slow, fast – dancing is just not his thing. The most he’s ever done is what he told Preston – swayed, shook his hips – nothing big.

And he gets the impression Preston wants to do something _big_. He wants to show up Pierce, he wants to meet his challenge head on and he wants to use Stan to do it and Stan’s all about helping him in just about anything but this. This big, public display of physical prowess that can easily turn on its head and make him look like a complete idiot. Normally he wouldn’t give a shit what other people think, much less strangers, but every now and again his self-consciousness creeps up on him. Like it is now.

But Preston is undeterred. Instead Preston, who earlier shied away from all this, steps up and into his personal space. He exudes a confidence Stan has had yet to experience from him and it’s…compelling. He eases close enough that Stan can hear, “Just follow my lead.”

“I-I can’t-!”

“You may stand still, but be loose.”

“Loose?”

“Easily moveable. When I come for you, follow along,” Preston explains and then he draws away and he…there’s almost no real way to describe it. He _transforms_. He goes from the stiff, formal blue blood to this wild, loose limbered dancer who is executing these moves that are drawing some serious attention. And Stan just stands there, stunned. Preston can…dance. And he’s really good at it. _Really_ good – like a professional.

He’s gliding here and there – long, lean legs working, hips moving in perfectly executed circles, arms going through controlled motions – moving with this manic energy Stan didn’t even know he was capable of. It’s like Stan’s wandered on to the set of a Step Down movie or whatever the fuck that series is called and then-! Oh no, then-!

Preston is sliding on his knees towards him and he’s at Stan’s feet. Stan swallows thickly because this sweaty, gorgeous creature is at his feet. Then Preston looks up at him with these big, bright gray eyes. Eyes shining with pure coolness as he pops up and draws him close. Stan can do nothing but fall into the embrace and be spun around, be led like a prop because while he’s moving he’s just…sort of lost.

Lost in this, whatever _this_ is, because my god - how on earth did _this_ happened? It’s like all of Stan’s bravado has fled and he’s just – star struck. By Preston Northwest. Preston, who’s running his fingers delicately up and down Stan’s sides, raising goosebumps with their actions and Stan feels himself shiver, feels his face catch flame because Christ on a cracker – he’s being _seduced_.

Preston is seducing him as he eases him this way and that about the dance floor, fucking _twirling_ him, and it’s like the crescendo to a great song, their dancing moving along fan-fucking-tastically with the music as if all of this shit was choreographed in advanced. Stan has no idea what he’s doing and can only do what Preston said early, just following his lead and then, next thing he knows, he’s being dipped.

He’s being _dipped_.

Preston’s arms are around him, holding him tightly, holding him close, as he lowers him just that perfect amount towards the floor. Stan’s head is spinning and the music has reached its end and there’s fucking _applause_ because there’s a goddamn _audience_ to this. How could their not be? Preston just pulled off the show of a lifetime, his performance friggin’ award worthy, and he carefully eases Stan up and then draws back enough to bow.

He bows to the onlookers, then bows to Stan before he takes up Stan’s hand and kisses the back of it. And Stan? Stan completely falls apart – letting out the world’s weirdest giggle-snort, because he can’t-! He can’t even-! There are no words for what the fuck just happened! Preston is all smiles and then Pierce and Rafe are there. Pierce looks slightly put out by the whole affair, while Rafe has the same stars in his eyes Stan has, “Wow, Preston, I’m impressed! I didn’t know you were such a good dancer!”

“Oh, it was nothing,” he waves away with false modesty. Pierce runs a finger under his nose, clearly miffed, “Mm, I suppose it was a good show. Rafe and I had you meet us here because we like to work up a good appetite before we dine. Dancing is one way we can do that. Publically. Privately, however…”

He eyes Preston again, but to his benefit, Preston doesn’t rise to the bait. If anything he counters it, turning to Stan, whose hand he’s still holding, “Oh, we follow your meaning quite well. Don’t we, darling?”

 _Darling_? _Who_? Stan blinks; thoughts barely functional thanks to how stunned he still is. Preston’s fingers rove over his knuckles, rubbing them tenderly as he continues to look at him with this adoration, “Stanley, darling?”

“Ah, yeah. Right,” Stan wheezes, mind catching up and it quickly latches on to something very important, something that immediately snaps him out of his stupor. Preston didn’t just one up Pierce, he’s one upped _Stanley_! Damn bastard is out conning him! Well, two can play at this game!

Stanley straightens, standing upright as he draws Preston close. He makes sure to sort of cuddle into his body and he can smell him, can smell his cologne mixing with his perspiration. It’s an intoxicating scent and really, this is _beyond_ unfair now. If Preston didn’t occasionally suck at being a person, he’d be friggin’ perfection incarnate.

Not to mention Stan’s about had it with this weird attraction he’s got going for Northwest. He focuses his eyes on the prize, growling, “Better get something to eat, my prince. After that dance, you’re gonna need to build up your stamina for later,” he edges up to his ear and faux whispers, “Not to mention your endurance.”

As he hopes, everyone hears his ‘whisper’. They all take on some color and Stan feels a tad better. Especially after he swats a good hand out at Preston’s firm backside and Preston lets out a girlish yelp.

 

+

 

“Where’d you learn to dance like that?” Stan asks Preston under his breath as they follow Rafe and Pierce to the restaurant. Apparently it’s within walking distance of the nightclub, which, it turns out Pierce’s family owns. They also own the place where they’ll be dining and Stan’s already exhausted being around two people with immeasurable wealth. He has no idea how Rafe does it.

In answer to his question, Preston smirks haughtily, “I’ve tried my hand at a wide variety of different physical pursuits. As I once told your brother, as a Northwest I am expected to be accomplished in a wide variety of areas. I am the master of my own body.”

This draws out a hoarse snort, “Yeah! I’ll just bet you ‘master-your-body’,” he makes sure to rush the last three words together so that they sound like something else entirely. Preston rolls his eyes, “Must you go for the easy joke?”

“Easy joke?” Stan teases, all mock innocence, “Why Preston, I have no idea what yer talking about.”

“Oh come, come – you clearly are making a-! Um, making a-!” Preston seems reluctant to say the word and Stan’s having a hard time stifling his outright need to chuckle now. He nudges Preston, “Making a what? What kind of joke could I be making? Or, better yet, what word do you think I was-?”

“ _Masturbate_ ,” Preston hisses between clenched teeth and the word carries a little more volume than he intended, because both Pierce and Rafe turn to shoot him a quizzical look. Preston’s face takes on the hue of a fresh strawberry and Stan tugs him close, “Shh! Not so loud, sweetheart! That’s a secret! _And_ that’s for later.”

Stan sneaks in a quick kiss on the cheek and it takes all of Preston’s will power not to swipe at the spot where it landed. Stan, for his part, is happy to be back on an even keel with Northwest. Unfortunately, this evaporates the moment they enter the restaurant. To say it’s a ritzy place would be a vast understatement. It’s the classic dining establishment for the wealthy, meaning linen tablecloths, menus full of four course meals that are over one hundred dollars a pop, and real candles on the table.

The silver wear looks like _real_ silver and the dish wear looks too delicate to even put food on. Stan feels fidgety and out of place. He feels like he’s a waiter out of his uniform or a busboy that shouldn’t be out of the kitchen. Hell, he feels like the _janitor_. Mainly he just feels like someone who shouldn't be here, like someone who’s not _allowed_ to be here.

He looks over at Rafe, hoping to form a connection because he’s a working guy too. However, Rafe looks annoyingly comfortable. But then, Rafe’s been around the Richie rich types longer than Stan has – maybe you just acclimate to it? Surprisingly Preston also looks uncomfortable as he intones, “The irony is overwhelming.”

“Huh?” Stan grunts and Preston sighs, “This is the very same restaurant I took your brother to when we met up with your parents.”

This revelation instantly sours Stan’s mood. He still feels bad about Ford having to face their father on his own, for Ford having to confront him. Ford keeps telling him it was a good thing, that Dr. Braum has helped him see how it would’ve had to happen eventually, but that doesn’t mean Stan has to like it. Not to mention a part of him feels a tad bad for Preston as well. After all, this is where Ford ‘kissed’ Preston and it was not, in any way shape or form, a happy kiss.

And from the look on Preston’s face, he’s thinking the same thing. Stan scowls; he’s getting pretty sick and tired of life giving him and his friends the shaft. He takes Preston’s hand in his and offers it a squeeze. Preston regards him with some surprise and then, with a soft smile, returns the squeeze. The hand holding ends as they take their seats. To avoid wiggling around in the chair like an errant child, Stan asks Pierce, “So, Pierce, your family really owns this joint?”

Pierce gives him a banal grin, “Yes, it’s been in the family for generations and been awarded some Michelin Stars. What about you? What does your family do? I note a certain…interesting twist to your colloquialisms. I take it you’re from New Jersey?”

Stan blinks and sticks out his bottom lip, “Gotta say, I’m impressed. I am from Jersey. Family runs a Pawn Shop.”

Stan gets a little kick beneath the table and he’s sure it came from Preston. He ignores it, but wishes he could send him a telepathic message. _The truth, Preston, always stick as close to the truth as possible_ , he thinks even as he adds, “But that was just our start. We’ve expanded since then, moved on to other lucrative ventures.”

Suddenly there’s another pressure against the leg Preston kicked out at. This one almost a gentle rub, as if to offer an apology. Stan looks at Preston and while his face holds its flawless cover he can see that tiny, uncoiled bit of appreciation for Stan and his ability to lie. _Yeah, don’t question how I play the game_.

Pierce waves over a waiter, who is followed by another fellow who’s revealed to be the sommelier. Orders are taken, wine and water poured. Stan’s dying for a Pitt Cola, but he’s betting they’re too swanky here to offer peach flavor soda. Not to mention the food on the menu is throwing him for a loop.

 _Braised Octopus; Daikon and Charred Ginger Relish, Yuzu Kosho Broth_?

 _Sautéed Dover Sole; “Almond-Pistachio Barberry Golden Basmati,” Chardonnay-Shallot Butter_?

What kind of menu is this? It’s like they just threw a bunch of fancy food words together. Where’s just a plain cheeseburger? Or maybe even a simple salad? It’s not that he wants a salad – heaven forbid! But he’d at least like something he’d feel comfortable asking for aloud. He gets the impression he must be making a face of some kind, because Preston slides closer, “I take it nothing is to your liking?”

“Um, not exactly.”

“Too decadent? Not enough recognizable, greasy offerings?” it’s asked in such a teasing way that Stan finds himself relaxing a little. He has no idea why he’s struggling so much on this damned (fake) date. Isn’t _he_ the one who’s supposed to be helping Northwest? Preston’s foot nudges him beneath the table again, “You know, you can request a basic steak.”

“Really?” Stan’s eyebrows rise.

Preston nods, “They often offer things not listed on the menu.”

“Eh, I don’t want to be the jerk asking for things not listed.”

“Nonsense, you’re merely asking for a simple cut of meat, not something extravagant. See here,” he points to a line on the menu, “Pan roasted filet mignon with wasabi pea puree, wild mushrooms and natural jus. I can see by the face you are making, yet again, that some of these items are not to your liking. Therefore, I would recommend asking for just the filet mignon. You don’t need to have the sides; they are only there to complement the dish.”

“Same reason I’m here, right?” Stan jokes, “Ta complement you?”

He rolls his eyes, “I don’t know why I even bother.”

“No, hey, I appreciate the help. Honest,” Stan assures him and when the waiter comes for their orders he does indeed ask for the steak with no sides. With the orders out of the way, Pierce starts eyeballing Preston’s shirt with barely veiled distaste, “That’s an…interesting design.”

Preston looks down to see Stan’s face emblazoned on the dollar bill and Stan expects him to give in, to show how much he has a distaste for it as well. But he should have known better, when push comes to the shove, the guy is committed when it comes to appearances, “It’s Stanley’s band shirt. He’s a very successful musician. Actually toured with a band of some renown, you may have heard of them, ‘The Flesh Curtains’?”

Pierce’s lip curls up at the name, “I’m afraid not. I prefer listening to music that isn’t in the mainstream.”

Stan’s hands clench into fists at the sheer pretentiousness of that statement. He darts a look at Rafe. He hopes it says: _Really_? _This is the guy you wanna marry_? But Rafe has already beat him to it, looking at Pierce reproachfully, “Pierce.”

While he says his name lightly, Pierce takes the hint, breathing in loudly through his nose. He rolls his head about his neck and tries again, “My apologies. I’m sure they’re quite good. And Stanley, I would love to hear you play sometime. If you traveled with them, you must be very accomplished.”

Stan blinks and looks between Pierce and Preston. Well. Shit. If that wasn’t an eerie moment. Pierce damn near channeled Preston when Preston’s been scolded by Ford. Huh. So, Pierce is the new Preston and Ford is the new Rafe. Where the fuck does that leave Stanley? He doesn’t know why the question gets under his skin, but it does. Which is why it’s probably a good thing the food arrives when it does.

He damn near attacks his meat with his knife and fork, wishing the portion was bigger as Preston drones on, “It was actually whilst Stan was traveling with that band that he and I became something more. You see, I go to school with his brother, Stanford, and initially none of us got on. My fault, I assure you, I was rather…incorrigible.”

There’s a loud choking noise at that, Stan struggling with his food at that particular phrasing. Preston seems to take great pleasure thumping him hard on the back as he continues, “Regardless, Ford and I eventually mended our fences, becoming fast friends. But Stanley was gone during our reconciliation. He had, in fact, been gone for some time, so I sought him out. It was from there that our involvement grew more…intimate.”

“That’s the NC-17 rating I was talking to you about back at the market,” Stan confirms. He’s swallowed the piece he was choking on and moved to another as he continues, mouth half full, “Let’s just say that while we didn’t click personality wise, we sure as hell clicked physically. Chemicals between us running red hot.”

“Chemicals?” Rafe questions and Stan’s gratified to see he’s knocked Preston from his acting a little, his face red again, “I believe he means ‘chemistry’.”

“Whatever you wanna call it. All I know is, my brother and me used to have this chant when we were kids – we’d do something awesome and we’d shout, ‘Pines! Pines! Pines!’ and when I was with Preston, he took up the same chant, but for an entirely different reason. Different pitch too, it was more like, ‘ _Pines_! _Pines_! _Pines_!’”

Stan makes sure to sound breathy, the last three words coming out in a rather impressive rendition of a voice close to spectacular orgasm. Yet again he’s gratified to see three stunned faces. The next kick he gets under the table is particularly sharp and probably well deserved. He doesn’t care though, his amusement at an all-time high. Still, he knows he should get this evening back on track. They are here for a reason.

He turns his attention to Rafe, “And what about you? You and my prince used to be thick as thieves, right?”

Rafe offers a dry laugh, “Ah, yes. Long ago. I worked for Preston’s family. I had a vested interest in botany at the time, working as a gardener, but I’ve since moved on to other occupations. It’s how Pierce and I came to know one another. I was living in Mexico with my family when his company came. They were in need of people who knew the area and were willing to translate, things of that nature, so I applied. I met Pierce and, well – here we are.”

He takes Pierce’s hand and squeezes it, thumb running over Pierce’s engagement ring. Preston watches this whole display and Stan eyes shift to him, curious to see how he’ll react. But there’s no chink in the armor, no crack in the veneer as he remarks oh, so casually, “You moved to Mexico?”

There’s no hint of accusation. None whatsoever. But Stan knows it’s there. He just _knows_ it. Rafe releases Pierce’s hand and has the decency to look sheepish, “Yes. After my employment with your father ended, it seemed like the best course of action.”

“Yes, the best course,” Preston murmurs, not looking at anyone, suddenly fascinated with the tablecloth as he smoothly remarks, “It’s a shame, I was left unaware of your whereabouts.  I did do my best to try and locate you, since your tenure with us ended so prematurely, but I’m afraid I was unsuccessful.”

It’s amazing – Stan can’t _hear_ the bitterness, but he knows it’s there. He’s sure Rafe and Pierce do as well. Oh, it’s nicely buried under layers of civility, but it’s there. Preston looks up and there’s this smile on his face. Stan instantly hates it. It’s the same sort of smile Ford’s tried to pull. The ‘everything-is-fine’ smile when, obviously, everything is as far from fine as possible.

Ford’s never successfully pulled the smile off– it’s always been too weak, too broken. Preston? He’s got the smile in place like a pro. He’s clearly done it enough times to become an expert at it and Stan finds that just stokes his hatred for it higher. It’s not genuine. It’s ugly and awful and he finds his anger spiking, protection mode coming on strong even as Preston blithely continues, “However, it’s heartening to see you well settled considering the closeness of our former association.”

“Preston…” Rafe starts, looking sad, but Pierce overrides him, “Yes, Rafe told me, in great detail I might add, about how you two were once involved. Let me just say, it’s a shame to hear of your father’s closemindedness. Nevertheless, I’m a firm believer that everything happens for a reason. I met Rafe, you met Stanley, and here we are.”

 _Yes, here we are, with me – minutes from punching you_ , Stan thinks with a huff. It’s not that he’s entirely against the sentiment, but there’s something about the whole ‘this happened for a reason’ adage that’s always bugged him. Especially now, when it’s clear Preston is hurting. Rafe too, looks pretty upset and Stan will give Pierce a little credit, because the guy at least picks up on Rafe’s suffering.

He has a hand on his fiancé’s back, gently rubbing it, and while Stan hates to play the bad guy, he knows he has to. More needs to be said, Preston and Rafe need some time alone to talk this out, so he throws out, “Hey, Pierce – any chance you’d give me a tour of this place? I see balconies back there and I’d love to check out the kitchen. I work part time in a coffee shop and I bet you got some amazing equipment back there.”

Pierce eyes shift between Rafe and Preston. It’s clear he doesn’t like the idea of leaving the two alone. Rafe looks at Pierce and the two seem to share a silent exchange. Pierce sighs and gets to his feet. He plasters on an amiable smile, “Of course. If you’d follow me, please.”

He gets to his feet, making sure to plant a firm kiss on Rafe’s lips and shooting Preston something of a warning glance. Stan does his part too, but; not wanting to alarm Preston, he settles for a quick kiss to the top of his head. Much to his surprise, one of Preston’s hands shoots out and takes one of his. It squeezes it and Preston looks up at him, eyes soft and vulnerable.

Stan feels deep pinpricks in his heart. He bends down and brushes his lips near one of Preston’s ears, whispering, “’S gonna be alright, prince. Just talk to him.”

Preston gives his hand another squeeze and nods. Stan follows Pierce and tries to believe what he told Preston will turn out to be true. He prays he didn’t just serve Preston up for more heartache, he hopes that he and Rafe can resolve their issues, and – more than anything - he wishes he’d stop feeling so damned much.


	5. Chapter 5

A shaky breath exits Preston as he watches Stan and Pierce leave. He licks his lips and looks at Rafe, but then immediately looks away, his cheeks hot. This is so uncomfortable. Preston hates discomfort. He suddenly finds he’s almost grateful to his father. Grateful for his upbringing, because he finds himself latching on to it, latching on to that cold core within him that makes everything fine and stable. Emotionless. He feels the ice lace into his blood as he speaks, “Rafe, you are looking well this evening.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” Rafe asks and his incredulous tone prompts Preston to look at him. Rafe’s arms are crossed and he’s leaning back in his chair. The lights in the restaurant seem to make his copper colored hair glisten, his tan skin golden and inviting but his eyes, those dark, bottomless pools hold censure. They hold censure!

 As if he’s the one who should be upset and Preston sneers, “Well, what would you have me say? There’s nothing _to_ say – only questions to ask! Questions such as what happened to you? After our-our indiscretion in the greenhouse you vanished. You _vanished_ , Rafe! Am I to blame for that?”

Rafe no longer looks reproachful, “No, you’re not. But I wanted to draw some real emotion from you. It’s been years, but you still do that thing Pierce does sometimes. You both try to be cold when it comes to serious discussions. It’s how you hide – this isn’t something you can hide from.”

 The laugh that leaves Preston is nasty and humorless, “Me hiding? I remind you again – _you_ vanished!”

“I did,” Rafe confirms, “I did and I don’t blame you if you hate me for it, but I…I had to.”

“Oh, you did?” this is asked with barely leashed disgust and Rafe sighs, ruffling his hair with one hand, “Yes. No. I don’t…”

He shakes his head, his entire being radiating unhappiness, “I…don’t even know where to begin. I’ve thought about what I’d say if we ever met again. I wasn’t sure if we’d ever get this chance and now that it’s here…”

Preston softens slightly, finds himself taking pity on him, “Just…take your time.”

They both sit there in silence, contemplating one another. For a while, Preston wonders if Rafe will say anything at all. Maybe he won’t tell him what happened. Maybe he doesn’t want to. Preston doesn’t feel as if he can force it from him. Thankfully, Rafe does speak, “Preston…you and I…”

He trails off, as if unable to speak the words. He draws in a shaky breath and starts again, “Preston, you and I kissed…and it was everything I dreamed of. Surely you knew I desired you. Once we got to know one another, when we became close – I desired you desperately.”

Preston didn’t know. He had never been sure. But hearing the words now causes a deep pang of sorrow within him, a longing for chances lost. Rafe, unaware of his emotional turmoil, continues, “But then your father arrived. Some member of the staff tipped him off. Someone I upset and he…”

He stops this line of speech, waving a dismissive hand, “It doesn’t matter. What _does_ matter; is that your father confronted me after he spoke with you. He told me I was relieved of my post and I said that that was fine, that I didn’t care, that all I cared about was you.”

“If that’s true, then why did you leave?” the heated question leaves Preston before he can stop it and he’s ashamed, ashamed of how much feeling is in each word, of how his eyes feel warm as if he’s about to cry.

Rafe looks pained, “Because he told me if that was true, then I must not care about the other people in his employ. I asked him what he meant and he told me he’d fire them, fire everyone, if I so much as dared to see or speak to you again.”

Preston blinks, stunned, “No. He wouldn’t...”

“He would,” Rafe insists, “I saw it in his eyes. Your father…I swear, he’s _crazy_. To this day, I’ve never seen anything like it. His eyes were empty, lacking any depth, any soul. He said everyone would be easy to replace. That people are looking for jobs all the time, that the slots would be filled within a day – that there’s no one on this earth that isn’t expendable, at least not to him.”

Preston doesn’t doubt Rafe’s words are true. His father has said as much, many times. But to let go of an entire household staff? Hundreds of people? His father hates extra work. He would have hated to put forth the time and effort to see the positions refilled. One of the things Mr. Northwest cherishes above all else is routine. He would have to had to lose it, albeit temporarily, in order to go through with his threat.

And yet – and yet Preston knows he would have done it. He knows it, because above routine, his father cherishes suffering. The suffering of others and, in particular, that of his son’s. He wants to deny it, must want to so much that his head has started shaking without his knowledge.

Rafe misunderstands the action, viewing it as Preston not taking him at his word, “I’m telling the truth, my pri…Preston.”

He corrects himself and looks a little sheepish. It’s obvious he wasn’t expecting to use the old nickname - that it just slipped out. Preston’s lips twitch at it, memories of him using it this way in the past coming to mind. Rafe had initially used the term whenever he felt Preston was being uppity or not listening to him. It wasn’t until much later that it became a more endearing expression.

Using it now, even if accidentally, adds more weight to Rafe’s words. It’s clear he’s being sincere and Preston gently nudges him, “Go on.”

 Rafe licks his lips and continues, “Your father said all of this and I told him, I told him I _still_ didn’t care, that nothing would stop me. So, he moved on to _my_ family. He promised me he’d do everything in his power to destroy them – he explained how he has a wide reach, many connections – how he’d see to it that the Ramirez name was ruined.”

This Preston can believe without hesitation. Again, the suffering of others. His father has destroyed families before – the Whitehall’s, the Beck’s, the McAllister’s. All once prominent families, just as wealthy, just as beyond reproach, until they slighted his father in some shape or form. They were taken apart – piece by piece. Either by vicious corporate takeovers spearheaded by the Northwest’s or personal, private scandals that were ‘conveniently’ exposed. Sometimes even both.

Josiah Northwest glories in the flaunting of his supremacy, in his ability to control and manipulate others – in crushing them and bringing them to heel. Vengeance and revenge – two words so similar in meaning, yet inherently different depending on how his father plots to execute them.

Rafe looks at Preston with pleading eyes, “You must understand…I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t risk everyone and everything I’ve ever loved for us. Our relationship…it was new. The others…”

“I understand,” Preston assures him and he sees Rafe relax visibly, sees the tears that were threatening dissipate as he reaches out a hand across the table. Rafe takes it and they hold hands, Preston squeezing his, “I do. It’s…annoyingly noble of you.”

Rafe lets out a watery laugh and Preston squeezes his hand again, “I just wish I had known sooner. I wish you had found some way to confide in me. I…I don’t know if you know, but I _did_ try to find you. After that night I went to your home, but your family was tight lipped as to your whereabouts. I even hired private detectives but they came up empty handed. I…I worried, you know. I worried something terrible might have befallen you.”

“As you can see, it didn’t.”

“Well,” Preston draws back his hand, offering a quirk of his lips as one eyebrow rises, “I’m not sure about all that. You are with a _Montgomery_ , after all.”

Another laugh leaves Rafe, “I know Pierce hasn’t done his best in your regards. I’m sure he’s come across as rude, but he’s actually a very kind man. I think he was merely thrown when he met you. I didn’t discuss my past relationships with him much. I believe he’s jealous.”

“He should be,” Preston preens, “I am his better.”

Rafe rolls his eyes, “I see for all you’ve changed, you’ve stayed the same. Still, Stanley’s clearly been good for you.”

This is the second time Rafe has said as much and Preston finds that his discomfort has returned. He should tell him the truth, unveil that his and Stanley’s relationship is nowhere close to romantic, but instead he finds himself curious. He has to know why Rafe thinks this, “How so?”

“To be honest, I never thought you would accept yourself, your sexuality, so easily,” Rafe offers blithely, “Much less so openly. But seeing you and Stanley dancing tonight, it was very eye opening. Not to mention when you helped him select his meal – that was sweet.”

It takes a lot of willpower to not blow a raspberry at that and that’s not even an action Preston does. It’s more Stan’s forte and he finds himself momentarily troubled that he almost did it. Obviously he’s been spending far too much time with the lout. He should really carve out some time for just him and Ford – get some of his good manners back.

But more than that, he focuses on Rafe’s words. Accepting his sexuality…

…he really should correct him, shouldn’t he? He should reassert his heterosexuality. After all, his indiscretion with Rafe was merely that – an indiscretion. He made a mistake in the midst of a heated moment; he’d confused friendship with something more. Right? Surely that was what had happened. But…is that what had happened or what he had _wished_ had happened?

And what of helping Stanley pick his meal? That had merely been their normal camaraderie, their banter. It didn’t have any deeper meaning. He and Stanley do not share that kind of bond. Perhaps he and Ford do, but he and Stanley…their involvement is…it’s…

Preston finds he doesn’t want to think on it. Instead he asks another question that’s been plaguing him, “Why didn’t your family talk to me? And why did my detectives never find you?”

“My family merely followed my wishes,” Rafe explains softly, his posture more relaxed now that most of the bigger issues between them have been addressed, “I was worried if I saw you so sooner after, ah, everything that happened – I’d break. So, I arranged to go to Mexico. I couldn’t stay where you and I had made so many memories. At the time, leaving the country seemed best.”

Preston absorbs this and more as Rafe adds, “However, I was paranoid. Your father’s threats haunted me. I contacted a friend of mine, Ivan. He has a skill for making things unseen. Even picked up a nickname for it.”

“Which is?”

Rafe’s lips perk up into a wide smile, “Blind Ivan.”

“Good nickname.”

He chuckles, “Certainly better than the one he had when we were kids.”

“Which was?”

“Toot-Toot McBumbersnazzle,” the moment he says it Preston can’t help but laugh. A genuine laugh, no less. Rafe always was funny. He looks at him now and his heart feels full. It’s good to see him, to at last have the air cleared between them. He feels as if there was an open book in his life, one always waiting in the back of his mind but now, now it’s closed; the story complete. Well, most of it – after all, now that they’ve renewed their acquaintance, there are new questions.

Such as, “So, you and Pierce…”

Rafe ducks his head, expression shy, “I really love him. In fact, he reminded me of you a lot. So much so, that, I avoided him at first. Too many painful memories. But he brought me out of my shell and, little by little…”

He trails off, looking bashful, and Preston just smirks, “Funny to think of someone having to bring you out of a shell. When I knew you, you were so…exuberant. So boldly spoken. I would’ve never taken you for bashful.”

Rafe shrugs, “Time changes us. When you knew me, I was a young, hot blooded eighteen year old. Now I’m in my twenties and a little wiser. Everything that happened between us…it left me wounded. Heart broken. But thanks to Pierce, I’m whole again. Isn’t that what happened with you and Stanley?”

Again, Preston knows he should correct him. That he should lay all his cards out on the table. But this time, before he can even make up his mind as to what to do, Stanley and Pierce reappear. The two of them are laughing and looking quite chummy. Preston’s a bit surprised by it and what’s worse; he finds himself feeling the strangest…something. It’s a flaring, right in the center of his stomach. He absolutely refuses to label it as jealousy.

Why should he be jealous? He doesn’t care one whit about Stanley Pines. He’s certainly not gripped with the sudden and outlandish idea that now that Pierce has taken Rafe from him, he’s threatening to do the same with Stanley. How can Pierce take Stanley? Stanley is not his. He doesn’t even _want_ him to be his! And as for Rafe, that’s long since concluded.

His reaction is a mere aberration, one which he dedicates himself to ignore. Pierce looks between Rafe and Preston, as if trying to silently gauge what might have happened in his absence. He must be pleased with whatever he parses together, because when he finally rests his eyes on Preston he looks less contemptuous than he has before, “Now that we’ve returned, is anyone in the mood for desert?”

“I could go for showin’ Preston the view out there on the balcony,” Stan proclaims, forking one thumb behind him, “It’s a helluva thing, even if it does sorta reaffirm my fear of heights.”

Rafe beats Preston in asking, “You have a fear of heights?”

“Kinda sorta. More so when I was out there. Still beautiful though. You guys oughta check it out!”

Rafe and Pierce seem to share a silent communication and Rafe shakes his head, “I believe I’ll pass. Pierce?”

Pierce nods, “Me as well. But you gentleman are more than welcome to look. Perhaps after we could have some coffee? You can sample some of the beverages our instruments make.”

“Sounds good, Monty,” Stan affirms and Pierce smirks. Preston barely avoids scowling. They were only gone for a few moments – how have they suddenly become bosom companions? Again he pushes away the annoyance, the feeling that is most certainly not jealousy and he follows Stan.

The view from the balcony is quite spectacular. He vaguely noticed it the last time he was here, but now…

The full moon shines heavily above them, shrouding everything in a soft, bluish glow. The city down below is a sea of colored lights – mostly white, yellow, red, and violet. They twinkle like stars and there’s a gentle breeze that highlights how the weather is perfectly balmy.

Preston recognizes some plants around the stone edifices that make up the balcony’s railings. Gardenias and petunias grouped together. He questions whether or not this is a good practice and just as his mind is about to be gripped with a variety of exciting botany questions, Stan pipes up with, “So? You get what ya needed offa Rafe? He fill you in on what the hell happened?”

Preston turns and blinks at him, as if startled he’d ask, “He did.”

“And?” Stan presses and Preston exhales loudly, nodding to himself. He supposes Stan deserves to know. After all, if it hadn’t been for his actions, Preston might never have had this chance to speak with Rafe. He tells him about his father’s threats, he tells him about Rafe’s leaving and his friend’s assistance in keeping everything under lock and key. He explains how it’s clear that Rafe did have feelings for him, but that in the passing of years, those have gone – how he’s with Pierce now and how Preston thinks this is what best.

He tells him all of this and Stan listens patiently, not saying one word. Finally, once Preston is done, Stanley speaks his mind.

“Well, that’s bullshit.”

 

+

 

Stan probably shouldn’t have gone with his knee jerk reaction, but sometimes he can’t help himself. Now being a perfect example. Normally he’d only be this candid with Ford, but somehow his mouth has managed to run away with him again.

Preston does not appreciate it.

“Wh-? How _dare_ you!”

“How dare _I_?” Stan presses a hand to his chest, eyebrows rising high, “Yer kidding me, right? How am I the bad guy here? Especially after all the lame ass excuses that were just thrown your way?”

“They-they were not-!”

“Hey, trust me. They were. You and Ford, man,” he shakes his head, frustrated beyond all reason, “You two are more alike than I realized. Both of you just take all this crap from these people who are supposed ta care about ya.”

Preston is fuming and Stan finds he doesn’t care. In fact, a part of him relishes this. Relishes this anger. It’s clear and pure and it feels so much simpler than those earlier, messy emotions. The ones where he felt almost as if there was some connection, some attraction, between him and Preston. Lord help him, even some tenderness.

He shouldn’t feel those things for anyone past Ford – he doesn’t _want_ to feel those things for anyone past Ford and the thought of them just adds fuel to his anger, just makes him continue to say dumb, hurtful things.

“Oh, you’ll fight with people who genuinely care about you, the ones who are actually worth a damn, but once you get attached to some asshole, it doesn’t matter what shitty thing he does! It all just becomes completely forgivable! Funny thing being, of course, that Ford’s done shitty things to you too!”

Immediately he starts sputtering, “What? Are you out of your mind? Your brother has never-!”

Stan shakes his head and completely shuts him down before he can start, “I love Ford, Preston. You sure as shit know that! I love him more than anybody, but I’m not going to stand here and try to explain away all his flaws. And he _has_ flaws. Or are you forgetting how he kissed you just to get one over on our old man?”

“Shut up,” Preston pouts, arms crossed, eyes looking out over the city. And Stan knows he should stop.

He should.

He’s being a grade A asshole, but he can’t seem to stop, his ire too up to let him, “He’s done the same to me, Preston! I love him, but sometimes he gets lost in his own head, his own reflection, and he forgets about everyone else around him. You can’t just be some – some Ford-apologist! Just like you can’t be a Rafe one! Don’t you see the holes in the guy’s story? I ain’t saying your dad didn’t chase him off, I ain’t even saying that his flight to Mexico wasn’t valid, but I am saying that he coulda done a lot more! A helluva lot more!”

Stan recognizes he’s shouting; recognizes that he’s going too far, but he can’t stand it. It’s like the arguments he’s had with Ford, the ones where he pointed out all of their father’s flaws. It’s like that, but worse, because Stan didn’t mind caring about Ford. But he _does_ mind caring about Preston. Because he doesn’t _want_ to. It’s almost as if he resents him for it, and that just adds to the fury.

Preston deserves to have someone care about him. Why doesn’t he see that? And why does Stan feel so bad that _he’s_ the one that cares? Isn’t it possible for him to care about both Ford and Preston? But the way he cares…the feelings…they’re tearing him up inside and he finds himself wildly lashing out against them. And, unfortunately, Preston is the unlucky recipient of his inner turmoil.

Preston, who still hasn’t met his eyes and seems…shaky. Stan feels like a monster, a beast. The very brute Preston’s accused him of being as Preston’s voice warbles, “He…he did everything he could…”

“And again I say; bullshit!” Stan cries, “Why didn’t he call you, huh? Why didn’t he write? Snail mail, e-mail, something!? Something to let you know he was okay, something to let you know he was _alive_? He didn’t have to see you face to face, but he could have done _something_ in the years you were separated and let me say that again, just in case you missed it – _years_. Years of you two not communicating, years apart, years for your father to forget all about his threats, and in all that time not one word from him! Not _one_!”

“He…I’m-I’m sure…”

“Don’t do that! Don’t make excuses for him! Ford does that too! He let our old man walk all over him!”

“Oh, yes, _of course_!” Preston finally looks at him and there’s fire in his eyes, a sneer on his face, “Because _only_ your brother had to deal with your father! It’s not as if your father ever hurt _you_ , huh, Stanley? No, _you_ always stood up to him, _you_ always defended yourself. It’s not as if he ever chased _you_ off and – oh, no! Wait! He _did_! Or is that not why you ran off with Rick Sanchez’s ludicrous band?!”

Stan’s breathing heavily now, his fingers curled into fists save the one that reaches out to poke into Preston’s chest, “You don’t know a damned thing about me and my old man! And what he did to me ain’t even halfa what he did to Ford!”

“Now who’s making excuses for Ford?” Preston snaps; smacking Stan’s hand away as he looks maliciously triumphant. Stan grits his teeth, “You’re about two seconds from getting your face wrecked, _my prince_!”

The nickname comes out with pure vitriol but, it only seems to egg Preston on, “Do you know why I said it was okay for you to call me that? Hmm? Do you? I let you call me that, because I’d hoped hearing it come from your thuggish lips would make me lose my taste for it. And, no surprise, it _has_. After all, you would – in point of fact – be the last person on earth that I would ever desire in any fashion!”

“You don’t desire me?” Stan seethes, getting closer into Preston’s personal space and Preston backs away from him. He notes that Stan’s taken on a…predatory look. One that makes him feel…hunted. His blood pressure spikes, nerves settling in as he moves, moves until he has to stop, because his back meets a wall.

His temperature is running a gamut from cold to hot and all these conflicting reactions just encourage him to raises his own hand, to poke his own finger into Stan’s chest with gusto, “No – why on earth would I? Why on earth does _Ford_? You are a _Neanderthal_! An animalistic, disheveled brawler who would fit better back in the Dark Ages than in-!”

His words cut off as Stan reaches out and grabs the wrist with the pointing finger. Preston raises up the other hand as if to defend himself and Stan grabs that wrist too. He holds both wrists up, squeezing them sharply. His dark eyes glitter hotly as he hisses, “You’re a rich guy, right Preston? Well, with the way you let people treat you, maybe you should take some of that money you have and buy yourself some self-respect!”

“Why, _you_! You-you-basta-!” Preston’s stumbling over his words, struggling valiantly in Stan’s grip, more than ready to fight. And Stan’s ready to give him a fight. He’s more than ready to let Preston go and for them to come to blows. He’s damn near thirsty for it – the idea of violence and punching one of the two main reactions right at the forefront of his mind.

Until he hears the door behind them open.

Immediately he recognizes that it could be Pierce, or worse, Rafe, and it propels Stan into doing the other reaction that is at the forefront of his mind.

Which is to kiss Preston.

A loud, muffled sound of outrage and shock escapes Preston, but Stan ignores it. What’s more, he uses his grip on Preston’s wrists to pin him to the wall, to keep him there, as his head slants to one side, deepening the kiss because Preston’s mouth is _open_. It opened to try and express his alarm, but now it’s merely allowing Stanley permission to deepen the kiss.

Which he does.

He thrusts his tongue deep inside, and it’s thick and full - doing its best to stifle any more noise. It shouldn’t be a good kiss. It _isn’t_ a good kiss. Stan’s tongue is aggressive in its need to shut Preston up. After all, it’s hard to talk when your mouth is otherwise occupied. But then…

But then.

Preston’s struggles sort of…cease. He fought initially, instinctively. When Stan first pinned him, he tried to get free. But now he lets out a different sound. This one of confused satisfaction. It makes Stan’s toes curl and he doesn’t know if the person who came out is still here or if they left, but he suddenly doesn’t give a fuck. Instead his tongue lightly brushes Preston’s and it’s like two matches striking together. Preston lets out a pleased hum and his own tongue tentatively slides along Stan’s.

Stan’s eyes had been half opened, had been off to one side to try and catch sight of the interloper, but it appears they’re long gone. And as Preston starts returning the kiss, he finds his eyes closing. Especially once Preston _really_ gets into it. Because once he’s into it? Once his mind is set to kissing? _Christ_.

Preston kisses like it’s the last time he’ll ever kiss someone. There’s this intensity, this passion, that knocks Stan for a loop. So much so, that he draws back to look Preston in the face. Preston is panting, cheeks flushed, pupils blown with arousal, eyelids heavy lidded with the very same desire he denied having. The moon is outlining him, highlighting his wet, kiss swollen lips.

Stan releases his wrists and cups his face in his hands, roughly gasping, “Goddamn…”

And then Preston is kissing him. Preston’s fingers claw through Stan’s long, thick hair. He clutches handfuls of it, twisting the strands as his hips jut forward, as they rub lewdly against Stan. Stan grunts, falling back against him. They’re pressed tight to the wall, rocking against one another, the sound of their lips meeting slick and beautifully audible.

Preston’s right leg rises up, curls around Stan’s right hip, drawing him closer, _closer_. It’s an intimate position and it’s almost as if he’s trying to climb into Stanley. It’s as if he wants to break them apart and push them together into one person, a fused being of hunger. He’s clutching at him and making these fantastically shameless sounds that are going straight to Stan’s dick.

And Stan’s drinking all this in when suddenly reality washes over him like a cold rain. This isn’t Ford he’s kissing, this is Preston. He’s kissing _Preston_. He pulls back to try and catch his breath, to try and get a handle on the situation and Preston? Well, Preston’s lost in his own thoughts.

For his part, Preston doesn’t know what came over him. But he does know he can still feel the burn of Stan’s stubble on his face. He knows his heart is racing, his blood pounding. He knows there’s lust pooled in the center between his legs and he knows that he’s drawn to how powerfully, handsomely _male_ Stan is. Male, he’s…

The sound of a throat clicking with a thick swallow rings out as Preston breathes, “I’m gay.”

Stan’s immediate thought is, ‘Yeah, and?’, but this time he keeps his mouth shut. Which is very good. Because in the next moment, the throat clicking gets louder, more desperate, and Preston’s head knocks back against the wall as he starts hyper ventilating, “I’m-I’m-I’mmm _ahuh_ \- _I’m-ahuh_ …”

The words can’t seem to escape, lost as they are in his rising hysteria, in the maelstrom of tears, because he’s _crying_. He’s dry heaving, sobbing. Ugly, jagged sounds escaping him as he clutches at Stan’s shoulders, at his hair, and Stan’s doing his best to calm him down, talking in gruff, low tones, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hey, hey, hey! It’s – Preston, it’s, it’s…”

“I-I can’t! _I can’t_!” Preston begs in jarring squeaks, “I can’t _s-s-stop_. I can’t _STOP_! Make it…make it-! Please, _please_ …”

“Shh, hey, _shh_ ,” Stan tries and feels like an idiot, because he knows Preston’s in the middle of one big, whopping panic attack and he doesn’t know how to help him. He’s heard about panic attacks before, he’s even read about what he’s supposed to do, but right now his mind is a complete blank. Preston is falling apart in front of him and he feels stupid, helpless.

Preston buries his face into Stan’s chest, gripping him tightly, fingers digging in sharply and it _hurts_. _Good_ , Stan thinks, _good – he can hurt me. I can take it; I can take the pain, if it means Preston’s pain will stop._ Stan rubs his big hands up and down Preston’s quivering back as Preston moans weakly, “I can’t…I c- _uhuh_ …fuh…fix me…S-Stanley, fix me, _please_ …”

The last comes out with such despair that Stan feels his heart break. His voice leaves in a croak, “There ain’t nothing to fix, Preston. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

This just causes more tears, more sobbing, and Stan’s shirt feels soaked with it. He clutches Preston close, murmuring all the soothing words he can think of. He keeps repeatedly kissing the top of his head, his forehead, anywhere he can reach. He runs his hands softly all over him and once he feels like Preston’s reached a place where he can understand him, he whispers, “Hey, look…how’s about me and you split, huh? We can sneak out the back.”

“I… _ahuh_ …” Preston’s voice breaks and it’s clear he’s trying to get ahold of himself but failing. It’s as if now that he’s started crying, he can’t stop. He manages to eke out, “R-R-Rafe ‘n P-Pi-”

“I’ll take care of them,” Stan cuts him off, voice gentle, “I’ll tell ‘em something came up. You can just go out the back stairwell and I’ll meet you down on the street. We can go home an’-”

“ _No_!” Preston keens, drawing back to show Stan his crumpled, tear-streaked face, “No, I-I d-don’t want Ford to…to see me like, l-l-like th _-this_ …”

While he manages to get the words out, it’s clearly an effort for him. Sobs are clogging his throat, strangling him, and Stan immediately reassures him, “Okay, okay. That’s fine, that’s fine. We’ll go somewhere else, alright? Anywhere you want. Just you and me, okay?”

Now that Preston’s drawn back so Stan can see him, his heart breaks even more. The guy looks devastated, _gutted_. His eyes are big and watery, his chin wobbling, cheeks shiny and wet. But Stan’s words seem to help some. Preston viciously rubs at his eyes and face, nodding weakly, and Stan pats his shoulder, “You go ahead. Okay, Preston? I’ll be right there. I promise. It’ll only take a sec!”

Stan practically bolts back into the restaurants to take care of Rafe and Pierce, not wanting to leave Preston alone any longer than he has to.

 


	6. Chapter 6

For a while they just drive.

Stan doesn’t know where to take Preston – he’s not even sure Preston wants to go anywhere. The moment he pulls up his car, Preston just crawls into the backseat and curls up into a ball. He hears the occasionally sniffle, the wet sucking sounds of someone trying to hold back their tears. Stan doesn’t have any tissues. He just drudges up some old fast food napkins and carefully scoots them into the back when he’s at a red light, offering a blunt, “Here.”

He’d say more, but he’s not sure what to say. So he drives. He just drives and drives. He goes around the block once, twice - when suddenly he finds himself going towards the interstate. He drives with conviction now, destination set, and he finds the roadways clear, running smoothly despite the evening traffic.

He pulls up to the beach he took Ford to. It feels like it was a lifetime ago. Stan didn’t know where he and Ford were headed then, where they were going relationship wise. Hell, even the nature of their ‘date’ that day hadn’t been very clear. But then that’s life, a cloudy window of uncertainty.

He parks the car and carefully turns to look over one shoulder. Preston’s not facing him. Instead he’s in a fetal position, body pressed close to the leather backseat. Stan clears his throat, “I, uh, brought us to the shore. Nice night out so I figured…anyway,” he licks his lips and noisily unhooks his seatbelt, “I’m gonna get out and get some fresh air. If you need me, just let me know. Okay?”

No answer. Not that he expected one. He gets out of the car and finds himself leaning against the hood. He crosses his arms and looks out over the rolling surf. There’s a fantastic breeze coming up off the water and the moonlight over each rippling wave makes it look like a sea of sapphires. Good words, lyrical. He draws out the notepad he always carries with him and jots down a few verses before his mind runs back over the events of the evening.

Christ, he could go for a cigarette. He quit for Ford’s sake (and maybe his own – a little bit) but right now is the kind of time where he’d love to inhale some smoke. His fingers practically itch with it, the old taste of tobacco lingering on his tongue. People always view smoking as a vile habit, but there’s something about it that’s always appealed to him – the fire, the ash, the clouds that curl from his nose and mouth. There’s just something about things that are bad for you that feel so goddamn good. He scratches at one arm and winces. Damn withdrawal – hasn’t been this bad in a while.

But then, tonight’s been a night for bad things. Not to mention a night for recognition. Recognition that’s been a long coming, and as if on cue he hears a car door open and close. Stan doesn’t turn, even though he wants to. He keeps his eyes locked on the coastline as Preston comes up to one side of him.

Preston doesn’t meet his eyes, but he does sit heavily on the right side of the car’s hood. The metal creaks beneath him a little, but Stan knows he can’t hurt it – the El Diablo’s a tough old bird. Preston draws his knees up to his chest, rests his chin on them and just looks out over the water, much like Stan. He draws in a couple shuddering breaths and shivers.

It’s not particularly cold, but Stan doesn’t give a shit. He goes to his trunk and pops it to find an old, checkered throw. He pulls it out and closes the lid, then goes around the body of the car to reach Preston. Stan tosses it around his shoulders before he resumes his earlier position. Preston tugs the material close, buries his face into it and breathes deep. Stan hopes it doesn’t smell like gasoline and oil.

They stay like that, silent, watching the water for what feels like at least a half hour before Stan finally decides he should probably say something, “How you doin’, kiddo?”

Stan’s voice sounds rusty, even to his own ears. He was going for gentle, friendly, but instead sounds gruff. Hell, he doesn’t even know why he said what he did. ‘Kiddo’? Really? Clearly Preston agrees, as he turns baleful eyes towards him, “I’m not a _child_ , Stanley.”

“Didn’t say you were,” Stan argues and he coughs into one hand because, well, yeah, actually he kind of did? Why is he failing at this so miserably? He’s taken care of Ford when he’s been upset before and he’s always thought he did an admirable job. Now? Now he’s completely floundering. Still, he feels the need to keep trying, “Seriously though, how’re you doing?”

He gets a threadbare laugh and, honestly, it’s not so much a laugh, as a rueful mockery of the sound, “Lousy.”

“Yeah?”

A head nod and Stan shifts from foot to foot. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. He wants to help so much, but there doesn’t seem to be any way _to_ help. Ford would know what to do. Ford would probably be way better at this, and yes, more often than not Ford’s _worse_ at this but Stan – he doesn’t know, he just feels like Ford would be better right now. Or Fidds. Susan, Shandra – hell, maybe even _Rick_. Anyone would be better at this moment but him.

But Preston’s stuck with him. _Of course_ Preston’s stuck with him, and he finds his mouth starts running with that, even though it shouldn’t, “I’m sorry.”

Preston doesn’t look at him, but Stan’s grateful for that. Grateful for that even as he curses himself and his damned mouth as he continues, “I’m sorry about all the shit I said back there. About Rafe and about him doing more…he’s a cool guy, y’know? I mean, I like him. And I was making him sound like an asshole and he’s _not_ an asshole. Hell, even Monty isn’t one.”

Preston doesn’t ask him who Monty is, but Stan explains anyway, “Pierce, I mean. When he took me on that tour and he was away from you guys, he was a lot more relaxed. Straightforward. Kinda funny, actually. The way he did the tour and how he talked about stuff – he and I started hittin’ it off and started jokin’ around. I started calling him ‘Monty’, ‘cause of that cartoon character – you know, the rich one on that show and…”

 _Stupid_ , Stan’s thoughts hiss, _stupid, stupid_! _What the fuck are you even talking about_?

Stan doesn’t know. He has no idea, but he keeps going, “Anyway, Rafe, he’s…not a bad dude. I mean, do I think he could’ve done more? Yeah, but who am I to judge? I don’t have all the facts. I wasn’t in his shoes. And sometimes time just runs away with us. He left you and he had to get a job and move into a new place and days slip into months and into years and next thing you know, it probably would have been too awkward to send you something. I mean: what would’ve been the point, amiright?”

Nothing from Preston and Stan’s head feels like it’s going to float off his shoulders. He feels unearthly, unreal, everything around him like a dream, “But I’m just…I’m sorry, because…I mean, people think if you’re rich you don’t have any problems. You got money and money fixes so much. But things can still go wrong and be complete bullshit. It don’t matter how much money you have – if life’s dealt you a bad hand, you got a bad hand. And you got a bad hand, Pres.”

“I do?” the question is spoken in such a low, quiet voice as to go almost unheard.

But Stan catches it and he’s so relieved to not be speaking into the void anymore that he clings to it, “Yeah, mean…Ford told me a bit about your Mom passin’ and yer Dad well…clearly mine and yours ain’t gonna be winning ‘Father of the Year’ anytime soon. Then you meet Rafe and that falls through and then you meet Ford and he and I are…and now…mean, you’re facing all this – this…stuff…and you only got me to help.”

Stan hates how he says ‘stuff’ but he can’t think of another way to put it. He can’t seem to think of anything and he feels more useless and stupid by the second, when Preston breathes out, “What did you tell them?”

Stan turns to him and Preston’s not looking at him, eyes still out on the ocean, “Rafe and Pierce?”

“Oh. Uh, well Rafe was the one who caught us swappin’ spit out on the balcony, so when I came back in and told them we had to go; he had this look on his face. This knowing look, said he totally understood and he…I mean, y’know…I don’t know…he seemed happy, I guess?” Stan flounders as he speaks, not sure if this answer is a good one, if this is one Preston wants to hear, even if it is the truth.

“Naturally,” Preston replies with this sort of self-deprecating look that pokes holes through Stan’s already perforated heart. He _bleeds_ for the guy. For _Northwest_. He just looks so accepting – like he’s used to this, that it’s just his luck. That he knows for a fact that he was born under a bad star or something and yeah, Stan even told him as much, but he wants Preston to rise above it, he wants him to _fight_.

Stan wants him to do anything but carry this defeated look. And just as he’s about to open his mouth to try and comfort him again, Preston whispers, “He’s happy, because he thinks I’ve already accepted myself. That I’m comfortable with…”

He looks down, tugs the blanket tighter around himself; “I wanted to correct him, I’d planned to, but…”

The words trail off as he sucks in this breath that seems to ripple along the very air, “I can’t even say the words again. Not aloud, not to myself. Whenever I try I get,” he rubs at his face, his cheeks, “I remember…”

“What do you remember?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Stan growls, “It does. Tell me.”

He knows he shouldn’t force him, that he should let Preston take his time. Hell, at this point, he’d give the guy whatever he wanted if it’d make him feel better. He could ask for Stan to tear his beating heart from his chest and he’d do it, because he _cares_. Dammit. He cares like he cares for Ford and earlier it just made him angry, but now? Now, it just…it makes him feel _desperate_. Desperate to help, but also desperate to push, to get answers.

And for a while he doesn’t think the push worked until he gets a desolate, “The last time I thought…I maybe even considered that I was…was gay, my father…he….he slapped me.”

Stan’s hands are clenched fists and red rises behind his eyes. It’s the very same red he’s seen for his own father, for the things Pops did to him and Ford. It’s a familiar red, a hated red, but it’s there as Preston keeps on rubbing at his face, as if the man (the monster) is striking him now, “He asked me what I was and I didn’t…didn’t know how to answer and he hit me and told me I was a Northwest and he made me repeat it. Again and again. I’m a Northwest, I’m a Northwest, I’m…and when he stopped, he said that Northwests aren’t gay.”

 _I’m going to kill him_ , Stan almost says the words, but he bites them back. He breathes in and out several times, huffing like a thundering dragon. He wants to rage, wants to fight. He wants to find Mr. Northwest and do much more than just slap him, he wants to beat him to a bloody pulp. But he knows that won’t help right now. He closes his eyes and counts to ten and then speaks; voice tight, “Thank you.”

The words surprise Preston enough that he looks at Stan, who doesn’t look back, still leashing his anger as he rumbles, “Thank you for tellin’ me, for trustin’ me enough to do that.”

This is obviously the right thing to say, because Preston lightens, even if only marginally, “Well, I don’t know about all that.”

“But you know he’s wrong, right?” the question rushes out from Stan, eager to be heard, “You can be a Northwest and be gay. You _can_ , Preston,” he stresses the words as Preston starts shaking his head, eyes wide and avoiding Stan’s again and Stan presses close to him, “Yes, you can. It’s okay, Pres. There’s nothing wrong with being gay, you even said so yourself.”

“I said so for you, for Ford. For others,” Preston clarifies, “Other people are free to be gay, to be with the ones they love or desire but I...I must…I have to…I don’t want…”

He can’t seem to speak, his thoughts and words running over one another and tumbling from his mouth, “It makes everything harder – no, impossible! It’s impossible for me to be gay. I don’t even know how to-!”

Preston shakes his head again, “No, no. I-I know you said it can’t be fixed and I said…no, I _felt_ , _believed_ , I couldn’t stop, but I must…I have to-!”

“Hey, hey!” Stan breaks in and he takes Preston’s face in his hands, directs him up to meet his eyes and look at him, because it’s clear he’s about to have another episode if this keeps on, “There’s nothing to stop. Nothing to fix. You’re gay, Preston. I am too. There ain’t nothing wrong with it. You’re a gay Northwest and that’s fine. That’s normal. It’s-“

“No,” Preston snaps and pushes Stan’s hands away, “Don’t! Don’t give me some – some cheap platitudes! Don’t tell me ‘it gets better’ or ‘stay strong’ or some other claptrap they peddle around the internet! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT! I DON’T-!”

His words cut off as Preston realizes he’s shouting, as he hears himself. He closes his eyes tight and some tears escape, his face locked in a snarl; thick eyebrows twitching as he struggles. And Stan knows he is. He knows Preston is fighting his own inner demons and, again, he wants to help. But he knows there’s nothing he can do. Not with this. This is something Preston has to do on his own.

 So he waits. He waits until Preston’s face softens, until it clears out and when Preston opens his eyes again, they’re calmer. Calmer but wet, and he looks up at Stan with an air of hopelessness, “I’m just…I’m tired, Pines. I’m tired of not knowing who I am.”

“Well then, I got some bad news for you – you never will.”

Preston’s head rears back as if Stan struck him, but Stan cups his face in his hands again. His touch is tender and his actions seem in opposition to his words until he continues, “Nobody ever really knows who they are, Preston. And even when they say do – they don’t. Because even when you think you got a handle on yourself, something changes. People change. You asked me a year ago if I thought I’d give a shit about you, I’d’ve said a loud and emphatic ‘no’. But I would’ve been wrong.”

Stan watches Preston’s lips tremble at the words and it’s so weird, so funny. To be this open, to be this honest. Stan’s not the ‘heart to heart’ type. He normally eschews these kinds of conversations like they’re the plague, but even he recognizes how important this moment is. This conversation.

So he forces himself to have it, to say what needs to be said, “‘Cause I do care about you, Preston. I care, so I changed. I grew as a person; I became somebody different than I was last year and hell, probably different than I was yesterday. And I didn’t know it was gonna happen. I didn’t know that about myself. I learned something new. So, I don’t know myself and neither do you. Neither does nobody and I figure if anybody says different, they’re full of shit.”

Preston snorts at the curse and Stan’s lips twitch, happy to once again draw something from him that isn’t sorrow, “You learned you’re gay. You said, it, you know it – you just need to start accepting it. You’re gonna be learning about yourself and who you are your whole life, but the important thing is – you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I don’t?” Preston asks the question like a lost child would and Stan marvels over how many times this poor guy can break his heart in one evening. He nods and presses their foreheads together, “Yeah,” he raises his head, kisses Preston’s temple, “You don’t. I’m here.”

Preston’s breath hitches and he nods to himself. His hands rise up to wrap gently around Stan’s wrists, to hold his hands in place as he whispers, “I’m gay.”

“Yeah,” Stan offers and then Preston says it again, “I’m gay.”

He says it again and again and for a long time and Stan just holds him, just presses them close together, until finally Preston moves enough to look Stan in the eyes. He looks at him and his gray eyes are fragile as he licks his lips and trembles, “May I-? May I ask you a question? Or…rather, may I ask you for a- a favor?”

Stan draws back just enough to get a better look at him even as he nods, knowing he’ll do anything he asks. Preston shifts where he sits, carefully unwinding the blanket from around his body. It falls back behind him on the hood of the car and when he looks at Stan again, Stan feels breathless and stupid, knowing what Preston is going to ask for even before he asks it, “Will you…kiss me again?”

The request hangs there between them and Preston’s looking up at him with those gorgeous eyes of his, hair tousled, face tear stained, leather jacket and shirt rumpled and he’s still trembling as he gasps, “I just…I want to feel something…good.”

Good. The kisses between them were more than just _good_. But those kisses had been in the heat of the moment. A lark spurred on by the intensity of their argument. It had been unconscious albeit passionate. But this…to do this…to think about kissing him, to make the decision to actually…

Stan thinks of Ford and wonders if it’s okay. Ford said Stan could kiss Preston, but to kiss him like this…

Feelings would be attached. Emotions would be attached. Stan knows this. This wouldn’t just be some platonic kiss, some friendly comfort. Stan knows it. He knows he can’t separate the two. If he kisses Preston, it will be meaningful. It will have depth. The strings of his heart will be connected to it, just like they’re connected to all the kisses he’s given Ford.

Preston sees his hesitation and his eyes skirt away, resignation settling in, “I understand if you don’t want to.”

“No,” the word escapes Stan before he can stop it and it echoes loudly in his ears, “I want to…”

He cups Preston’s face in his hands again, looks down into it as he says more to himself than to anyone, “I want to.”

And he does. He _wants_ to kiss him. Stan wants to kiss Preston, so he does. He angles his head and locks their lips together and, just as he surmised, it’s beyond good. Preston’s mouth is soft, pliant beneath his own. It’s not like what they shared earlier. This is warm and gentle and Preston’s tongue meets his easily. It’s slick and sweet and a hefty groan rumbles in Stan’s chest as he finds himself pushing Preston back. Preston falls against the blanket so easily and Stan clambers over him, the car beneath them jostling about on its wheels.

Stan presses Preston against the hood even as one hand cups the back of his head, tangling in the hairs at the nape of his neck, the other running up and down his right side. Preston’s own hands clutch at Stan’s shoulder blades, his back, as he returns the first kiss that easily melts into the second and then the third. Or perhaps it’s all still the first kiss, but it’s unending and Stan realizes rather quickly that they’re burying themselves deep into a full make out session.

But dammit, if Preston doesn’t _taste_ fantastic, _feel_ fantastic. His body is limber, but strong beneath Stan’s and he moans so prettily as Stan sucks on his tongue and Stan grinds down against him because he _has_ to. He has no choice, this is…this is so goddamn _satisfying_. Preston is kissing him with that laser-like focus he has, lightly exploring the whole cavern of his mouth and letting out little noises of approval at everything he touches.

And Stan approves of Preston just as much, experimentally rocking against him and grunting because, fuck, he wants to do _more_ than kiss. He won’t. He can’t. But the fact that the want is there startles him. Startles him enough that he considers stopping, but Preston is so into kissing him, so happy with it, that Stan doesn’t.

Instead Stan just focuses on kissing him, on making Preston (and himself) feel good. He tosses the rest to one side, resolving to worry about it later.

 

+

 

Ford checks his phone.

Nothing.

He squirms where he sits on the couch and puts his phone face down on the table in front of him and picks up his textbook. He reads a sentence. Two. He puts the book down on his lap and checks his phone again. Nothing. He squirms and picks up the book. One word read. He groans and chucks the book aside, picking up the phone once more to stare at it accusingly.

Why hasn’t he heard anything? Not a call, not even a short text – nothing! It’s past midnight and he’s creeping closer and closer to panic mode. He doesn’t want to bother them – maybe the date just ran long? But if that’s the case, why not a head’s up? He’s kept himself from calling (barely) by enumerating to himself all the reasons he shouldn’t. He doesn’t want to be clingy or intrusive or –

But why hasn’t either of them called? Or texted? Or something, anything, to let him know what’s happening and he checks the time again and decides, fuck it, he’s going to call because if they’re in some sort of trouble…

That’s when he hears the key in the front door. Ford jumps to it, wrenching the door open with a huge amount of force, “There you are! Where have you two been! I’ve been…worried…sick…”

His rant slows at the sight of Preston. He looks…different. His hair is mussed, his face flushed, but there are marks along his face that Ford recognizes as dried tears. He does his best to stand tall, chest puffing out as he looks at Ford and clears his throat, “Stanford, I have an announcement – I am gay.”

Ford blinks, not sure what he was expecting, but knowing it wasn’t that. He opens his mouth and then snaps it shut, unsure how to respond. Not that it probably would have mattered either way. Now that he’s made his proclamation, Preston sort of shrinks in on himself. He looks timid as he coughs into one hand and avoids his eyes, the earlier steam he had evaporating as he says tentatively, “I…hope this will not change your opinion of me.”

This is easy enough for Ford to react to, as he offers a simple grin, “Of course not, Preston.”

His friend looks back at him quickly and with such a pleased expression that Ford’s grin grows wider. But then Stan comes in behind them and he also looks different. He looks…nervous, unhappy, and Ford’s grin fades at the sight, worry returning.

Preston looks between the two of them with a frown and then jerks one thumb towards his room, “I’ll just…”

He disappears into his room and Stan rubs at one arm, looking uncomfortable as his mouth twitches about his face. He gestures to the couch, “You wanna take a seat? I gotta lot to tell you.”

Ford just nods numbly and does as Stan asks. Stan tells him everything – he tells him about the dance, the dinner, about Rafe, and about Preston’s meltdown. The meltdown seems to be a hard part for him, because it involves kissing and Ford notices that Stan’s looking at him in this weird way, like he’s _forcing_ himself to look at Ford.

It’s as if he’s watching out for his reaction, as if he’s terrified of what it will be. But honestly, Ford’s too busy listening and his face must be pretty inscrutable, because Stan seems a little annoyed. It makes sense. Normally Stan can read his brother, but right now? Right now Ford’s just nodding and not giving a damned thing away.

So Stan switches to the beach and the car and this is when he really tenses up, growing extra anxious as he confesses, “….and so then he asked me to kiss him and I…I did. I kissed him again. A coupla times.”

Ford says the first thing that comes to his mind, “Okay.”

Normally it’s Stan whose words just tumble right out his mouth, but this time it’s Ford and clearly this is not the response Stan expected. He blinks rapidly and looks stunned as he repeats, “‘Okay’? Sixer, I don’t think you get what I’m sayin’ here. I kissed him. _Again_. More than once. And this time it wasn’t cause of some dumb, fake relationship or for show…hell, even the _first_ set of kisses wasn’t really for that and-and....”

Stan trails off as he twists his hands together, expression absolutely wretched. Ford still doesn’t understand why he’s so upset. He gave Stan permission to kiss Preston and it’s not like they did anything terribly overt. They just kissed. Just when he’s about to say ‘okay’ again and risk Stan’s possible ire, Stan adds, “I mean, yeah, I’ve – y’know, kissed other people before. Carla, Jimmy, Rick – and, mean, it’s not like I _didn’t_ like kissing them. Those kisses were good – great, even. But when I kissed them, you were always at the back of my mind and this time…this time…”

A lightbulb clicks over Ford’s head and his eyes widen, “You’re worried kissing him is a disservice to me, to our relationship.”

“Isn’t it?” Stan asks, voice edged with apprehension, “I mean I know you gave me the green light to kiss him, but I didn’t _really_ plan on doing it. Like, _at all_. Much less doing it more than once! And – and the fact I…I _enjoyed_ it…that I didn’t think about you, I just…I’m…”

Stan rises from the couch and starts pacing and Ford watches him with a small smirk, a fount of admiration rising up within him, “You’re really worried, aren’t you? Worried you cheated on me.”

Stan stops cold and turns to him, face struck with horror, “Oh god! I–I did, didn’t I? I-I-!”

Ford’s rarely seen Stan get so worked up and he rises, taking his brother’s shoulders in his hands, “Stan, relax. Breathe. You didn’t cheat on me.”

“But-!”

“Stanley, do you love me?”

The simply asked question causes Stan’s head to rear back, chest puffing out, “Jesus, Sixer! What kinda question is that?! You _know_ I do!”

“Alright, well, I love you too,” Ford assures him and he gives his brother a quick kiss on the lips, “I love you and I trust you and I appreciate you being honest with me. It’s a sign of a good, healthy relationship, being open and honest. Doctor Braum’s told me that many times in our sessions.”

Stan’s eyebrows rise, “Wait! Does she-? Ah, does she know about…about us?”

Ford licks his lips, clearing his throat and Stan’s eyes grow big, “Holy shit! She does! You told her about-!”

“That’s not the point, Stanley,” Ford deflects, “The point is – I trust you. I know you would never intentionally hurt me or go behind my back. I know that you would never endanger our relationship with some meaningless, lustful fling. You love me and I believe in that. And I love you too. And if you find you also have feelings for Preston, feelings that are of a more romantic nature…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Stan interrupts, looking troubled, “What’s with the ‘R’ word? That’s…that’s a bit extreme. I’m not-! I-I ain’t sayin’ I…I _like_ the guy…y’know, like…like _that_.”

“Really?” Ford returns, his own eyebrows raised as he bites his lips to keep from laughing. Mainly because Stan is blushing. Stan doesn’t blush often, but when he does…

 _Adorable_. Stan would hate to hear that, and Ford’s so tempted to tell him, too. To just to lean over and kiss him on the cheek and tell him how _adorable_ he is. But he holds off, remarking dryly, “But you kissed him. Again. More than once. Your words. And apparently you lost yourself in it, which says to me you enjoyed it a great deal. And maybe you enjoyed it a great deal, because you enjoyed who you were doing it with…”

“I-! I-I-! _No_!” Stan trips over himself verbally and Ford’s sure Stan’s face has to feel hot now, it’s so _red_. Ford can’t help it anymore, he finally laughs a little and takes pity on his twin, kissing him a couple of times to try and soothe him. Stan relaxes a little under the sweet pecks but also grumbles, “I don’t _like_ him, Ford. He’s a friggin’ _rich_ _boy_!”

“And here I thought you _liked_ money. Haven’t you listed that as one of your many turn-ons in the past? And Preston certainly is classy and I know you like that…”

“I _like_ you,” Stan insists, “I _love_ you.”

“I know you do,” Ford promises and he kisses him again, “But you’ve got a big heart with a lot of love to give. There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, it’s one of _my_ turn-ons.”

This gets him a begrudging smile, “I turn you on?”

“Mm hmm,” Ford hums and he cups Stan’s face in his hands. He draws him close, kissing him more deeply this time. Stan lets out a happy sigh and tugs Ford close, kissing him back. They kiss for a while and then Ford draws away, looking into Stan’s dreamy eyes, “Who’re you think about right now?”

“You.”

“See? Like I said; nothing to worry about. I trust you.”

Stan just clucks his tongue and swings Ford a little in his embrace, “With your background, shouldn’t you be _less_ trustin’?”

“What? You think my motto should be ‘trust no one’?” Ford snorts, “What an absurd and paranoid idea. Maybe in another world, but in this one…I’m comfortable putting my faith in you.”

The declaration makes Stan squirm some and Ford’s seen this before. His brother being shy when faced with pure, naked emotions. So, he’s not at all surprised when Stan fires back with, “I know what _I’d_ be comfortable with putting in _you_.”

Ford rolls his eyes, “God, you’re unbelievable.”

Even Stan seems a little abashed by his own bad joke, “Hey, it was either that or me coming up with some ideas for other worlds. Maybe there’s one where we’re like, talking vegetables or something.”

“Like ‘Veggie Tales’?” Ford asks aghast and Stan looks pleased to have rattled him, “Yeah, or maybe fruit or something. We could be apples or grapes or bananas. Stananas.”

A groan erupts from deep within Ford at that one and Stan’s having a ball, “We’d have _a lot_ of potassium, we could-“

“I’m begging you to stop,” Ford pleads and, knowing Stan won’t stop unless he’s offered a good change of subject, asks, “Do you think Preston will be okay?”

Stan looks at Preston’s closed door and draws away from Ford to rub at the back of his neck, “I don’t know. I hope so. But, well – the guy’s got a lot on his plate. His dad and ours seem to have both rolled right out of the same shitty father factory. You shoulda seen him when he first started talking about it – massive panic attack.”

“But you helped him.”

Stan shrugs, “I did my best. Couldn’t help thinkin’ anyone else would’ve been better. I would’ve brought him back here when it first happened, but he didn’t want that. Didn’t want you to see him.”

Ford’s eyes widen, “Why?”

“Aw, come on, Sixer. You know the guy’s gotta huge crush on you. Last thing he’d want is for you to see him brought low.”

This information actually causes Ford to blush, “Oh, he-? He still, um…”

Stan rolls his eyes, “‘Course. It didn’t just vanish ‘cause you told him you knew about it. Besides, he lives with us now – gets to know you better, spend more time around you. Bet it’s even worse now. Shit, probably shouldn’t have helped him – now he might be competition, might try to steal you away from me.”

“He won’t steal me away,” Ford snickers but his tone turns very light as he adds, “Although, if you’re to be believed - he’s a fantastic kisser, so maybe I should give him a taste…”

“I’ll give _you_ a taste,” Stan snarls and he tugs Ford into a headlock, knuckles digging into his the top of his beanie. Ford struggles playfully as the two wander off to their room for the night.

 

 

+

 

“…and the quarterly reports are very promising. My revitalization project for this area is proving to be a sound investment, as you’ll see in the chart I provided you via e-mail. I have also included a power point, which outlines my plans to acquire the next block over, adding it to our holdings.”

Mr. Northwest merely makes a confirming murmur, not really looking at Preston as he speaks. As they’ve done every Friday for the past year, they’re conversing over webcam – Preston in his bedroom, his father in his office. Preston makes sure to dress professionally, tie and suit, much like his father. Josiah sits at his desk, eyes flicking over reports in one hand while the other reaches out a blindly to take his coffee. He sips it as he asks, “And your schoolwork?”

“Proceeding as planned. I aced both my most recent advanced calculus and business management exams and am showing great promise in my statistical physics in biology class.”

The last seems to catch Josiah’s attention. He sets aside the reports and the coffee. He steeples his fingers, turning his cold eyes on to his son, “Yes, your biology class. You attend that with Stanford Pines, correct?”

Preston swallows thickly. His father _knows_ he attends it with Ford and Mr. Northwest isn’t one to prevaricate so, naturally, he’s on edge the moment the question is asked. Still, he does his best to keep his cool, “Yes, sir.”

“I take it he is helping you to advance in this course.”

Not a question, Preston breathes in deep, “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Northwest sits up even straighter (if that’s possible), “Naturally this brings us to your…current living arrangement.”

The bottom of Preston’s stomach drops out and he barely avoids chewing on his bottom lip. He knows better than to do that. Instead he plays the part he’s always played, face impassive, “What of it?”

One of Josiah’s eyebrows rise and Preston realizes how provoking that might have sounded, so he quickly counters, “I apologize. I merely meant that that is old business. We addressed it, you gave your approval. I am supervising the property that I purchased for the company whilst also-!”

Preston’s words die on his lip as his father holds up a hand, silencing him. They sit there, stony quiet between them until Mr. Northwest speaks, “Your acquisitions in the area notwithstanding – I question allowing you to continuing live in that hovel.”

“H-hovel? My reports show the improvements in-!”

“Improvements for the masses, yes. Improvements for gaining capital for the company, yes. Improvements for a Northwest to reside there?” his father chides softly, “That is what is in question.”

“I…don’t understand,” Preston breathes, before quickly tagging on, “Sir.”

“You lived in a frat house before this,” Mr. Northwest delineates, “It was acceptable, because a young man experiencing this rite of passage while attending a university is justifiable. Not to mention you’re attending your great grandfather’s alma mater and you are part of his fraternity, of which he was a core member. That said, you left that prestigious housing to move to something…common.”

“I…I thought it would bring an air of respectability,” Preston counters, “That my living here would give me – would give the company – an every man quality which we could parlay into -”

Mr. Northwest interrupts firmly, “You are not an ‘every man’. You’re a Northwest.”

Preston loses the fight to not bite his lower lip and he nods; eyes downcast.   _I may not be an every man, but I am a gay man, sir_ – he thinks inside his head and laughs darkly at himself. Oh, words he will never, ever say. It’s only been a day since his coming out and he’s still having issues accepting it himself. He _knows_ his father never will. Frankly, Preston plans on going to his grave without ever telling him.

Hell, he’s not sure if he’ll tell anybody. Obviously Ford and Stan know, but for others to know…

Preston is trying to get comfortable with the idea, but it’s difficult. He’s spent such a long time denying these feelings that to embrace them now feels…awkward. But better. Sort of. At least a little bit. It certainly feels more truthful, something he will never be with his father as he nods again, “Yes, sir.”

“Which brings us back to Stanford Pines, who is your roommate. As is his…twin,” Mr. Northwest says this with some distaste, as if twins are some sort of freakish manifestation, “Stanley Pines. You reside with both of them and, if word is to be believed are…friendly with them.”

The way he says ‘friendly’ makes every hair on Preston’s body stand on end, “We have an amicable arrangement.”

Mr. Northwest hums, “Yes, so ‘amicable’ that you were spotted with one of them in the presence of a Montgomery.”

Everything in Preston turns to ice. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised his father knows. It’s as if the man always knows everything, as if he’s the very god he claims to be. His knowledge of Preston’s life and actions are damn near omniscient. Josiah continues disapprovingly, “As I am sure you are aware, the Montgomerys are a fine family albeit with very…liberal views.”

Mr. Northwest edges closer to the camera, as if to get into Preston’s face, “It would appear that Pierce Montgomery is, in fact, affianced to a former employee of our estate. One Rafe Ramirez.”

The words immediately make Preston’s eyes prick with unshed tears, fear washing over him in waves. His father’s baiting him, circling him like a shark sensing blood in the water, sensing weakness. He blinks rapidly and does his best not to give in, “Yes, I am aware.”

“Are you? And did you plan on including me on these matters?”

“I…did not think it relevant. Sir.”

“Is it relevant that you were dining with them in a Montgomery establishment? That it would appear, to an outsider’s perspective, that you were, perhaps – on a double date?”

Preston’s sure he’s paled but then, the craziest thing happens. He thinks of the beach. He thinks of the moon and the stars and a warm voice saying – _you don’t have to face this alone. I’m here._ He thinks of warm arms holding him, of a soft kiss on his forehead. He thinks of Stanley. He thinks of him and then he thinks of Ford. Ford’s warm eyes looking at him, a simple grin in place as Preston confessed his orientation. As he asked him if his opinion of him changed and Ford just said, _of course not, Preston._

He thinks of those things and feels the ice thaw, feels himself grow bolder as he says, “And since when did we, as Northwests, care for an outsider’s perspective?”

Mr. Northwest’s eyebrows rise and Preston feels triumphant, “It was merely a dinner, sir. It is not uncommon for four men to be out, dining together. Nothing untoward happened and I was merely offering my congratulations to the happy couple with a friend in tow. All above board, all respectable. Not to mention it’s just good business.”

“Good business?” Mr. Northwest questions incredulously and Preston nods, “This will no doubt ingratiate us to the Montgomerys should we wish to engage with them in any future business endeavors.”

There’s a long pause after the words, as if Mr. Northwest is truly absorbing what Preston said. Preston waits patiently, feeling confidant. Finally his father sighs, “I suppose.”

It takes all of Preston’s willpower not to pump his fist, not leap into the air in victory. Josiah eyes him broodingly, “However, I still question your…involvement with the Pines family. While I will admit to seeing some merit in their father’s business acumen, I cannot say I extend the same courtesy to his sons. Especially Stanley.”

For some reason, the words cause a sense of defensiveness Preston’s never felt before and he feels his spine straighten as he argues, “Stanley is a fine young man. True, he doesn’t have the same passion for intellectual pursuits that his brother carries, but he has a good, strong work ethic.”

This comment gets as close as a grunt as Preston’s ever heard from his father. Part of Preston wants to add how Stanley is also caring, compassionate, and an _amazing_ kisser. He feels himself flush slightly at the memory. Stan’s mouth had been so hot on his, so passionate. And there’d been that delicious scrape of stubble against his skin. He can almost feel it now - the sweet, slight burn as rough hair brushed against his chin, his cheeks.

Not to mention the taste of him, the feel…thinking of it now makes Preston want to move about on his feet, lower regions of his anatomy getting a little, ah, stimulated at the remembrance. He wonders if Ford would kiss the same way, if Ford would be as sweet, as good. He also wonders if he’ll ever kiss Stanley again and he realizes he really wants to and oh shit, oh no…

 _You can’t have a crush on TWO people_ , _are you mad_? His thoughts hiss at him, _you’ve just come to (somewhat) accept your homosexuality and now you’re openly lusting after TWO men? Brothers, twins – no less? And you certainly can’t be thinking about this right now while you’re talking to your FATHER._

This seems to snap him out of it and he blinks rapidly before regarding Josiah again, doing his utmost best to stay focused; “I see no cause as to why I shouldn’t continue my current living arrangements and I believe I have well outlined how I’ve been doing since our last meeting. As such, I would request your permission to conclude this call.”

Mr. Northwest lets him twist in the wind for a little before finally saying, “Agreed. Until next Friday.”

The camera on his father’s end clicks off and Preston visibly relaxes. He makes sure to power off his laptop and put it back in its carrier bag. He changes into his dark blue silk pajamas and contemplates turning in early when he hears a knock at his door. He opens it to see Ford and Stan standing there. They’re both in their own bedtime attire – Stan in a white tank top and striped boxers, Ford in a black shirt and grey boxers, lighter grey beanie still in place.

Preston looks between the two of them with some surprise, “Yes?”

Ford clears his throat, “Hey, we just…we wanted to check on you, y’know? You and I didn’t get to talk much last night and this morning we were all too busy with school and work and then we missed you at dinner, so…”

“I’m fine,” Preston assures him and Stan looks disbelieving, “Really? ‘Cause like Sixer here said, you were a no show at dinner.”

“I wasn’t hungry,” he explains and Stan shoots him a look that says that that’s impossible. Feeling self-conscious, he explains, “It’s not as if I’m known for having a prestigious appetite. Look, a lot has happened, a lot has changed. It’s nothing you two should worry over. I am…grateful for your concern, but I promise you – I am fine. I am…coping.”

Ford looks as if he disapproves of that particular word choice. but doesn’t say it, instead remarking brightly, “Well, Stan and I were thinking about that and we thought maybe you’d like some company.”

“What?” Preston is completely bewildered and Stan mumbles, “We want to help you, ya ignoramus! Like I said – you don’t have to deal with this on your own. We want you to know nothing’s changed – every thing’s the same, ‘ccept you’ve finally admitted to yourself that you like dick now.”

“ _Stanley_!” Ford hisses and Stan chuckles, “Fine, fine. You like _men_ now. Still, doesn’t mean you have to, like, quarantine yourself or something. You ain’t a damned leper. We know where you’re coming from – more than even. So, what we’re getting at is – we should all hang out. Have a sleepover.”

“A…a sleepover?”

Ford beams, “Yeah! I mean, we all live together, of course, but this’ll be different. We can hang out in your room, sleep in here…”

“ _Ah_! Whoa! Hey, hey, hey!” Preston starts wavering his hands, turning crimson at the mere idea, “I…just yesterday I came to the conclusion that I’m-I’m-! I, ah, what I’m trying to say is, while I’m very flattered I’m not ready for – for some sort of…of gay initiation or-!”

“Christ,” Stan barks out a laugh, “We ain’t inviting ya to an _orgy_ , Preston! This isn’t about the three of us havin’ a circle jerk! This is about having a sleepover. You’ve _had_ one of those, right? We’re just gonna watch movies, eat junk food, and talk shit. Sleep in the same bed and I underline, _sleep_. Sleep as in _real_ sleep, not sleep as in a euphemism for hot, sweaty, sexy fun times.”

“Oh,” Preston blinks rapidly, feeling quite silly. He also feels he should point out that he has not, in fact, ever had a sleepover before, but he refrains, “I…well, I suppose that would be…acceptable. Fun, even.”

“Fun is the name of the game, my pri…Preston,” Stan corrects himself and Preston frowns, disappointed, even as the twins come into the room. Ford looks around and admires Preston’s flat screen television when he snaps his fingers, “Shoot! I forgot to grab some movies! Be right back!”

Ford leaves and Preston turns to Stan, “Why did you stop yourself?”

“Huh?”

“Um…from…from calling me ‘my prince’. Why did you-?”

Stan folds his arms and fails at not looking hurt, “Thought you didn’t like it, remember? You told me hearing me say it made you lose your taste for it.”

Preston recalls saying that now and he looks away, shy, as he whispers, “Oh, I…well, I…I may have just said that in the heat of the moment. To upset you. Actually, I…well, while I will admit I _did_ initially intend for you to say it as a way for me to get over the nickname, I’ve come to find I actually…like it more. From you. I…like when you say it.”

Stan regards Preston with some surprise, more so when Preston says, “If you wish to keep calling me that I would…not be opposed to it. In fact I would very much like it if you kept calling me that.”

It’s then Preston’s turn to be surprised, as Stan takes on a little color, his cheeks turning ruddy, “Okay, then. Uh…great! I guess I’ll-I’ll keep doing it then. And if you wanted to, uhh, I don’t know – call me the name you gave me, I guess that’d only be fair.”

“The name I gave you?”

Stan coughs while answering, as if to cover the word, but Preston catches ‘darling’, and he smiles, “I see. Very well, _darling_.”

He lays out the endearment thickly and Stan’s color deepens. To make up for it, he swats a hand out at Preston’s ass, “Nice ta see we got that settled, _my prince_.”

 

+

 

It’s the wee, early hours of the morning.

Preston shifts on his mattress, waking ever so slightly. He opens his eyes a fraction. His room is dark, basked only in the warm glow of his alarm clock. He can vaguely make out Ford’s face in front of his. He blinks sleepily and feels Stan’s arm tighten around his waist as he holds him from behind. He’s snuggled between both twins and he feels…warm. So very warm.

He closes his eyes again, sleep drifting back towards him and his last thought before he succumbs to dreams again is that –  for the first time, in a very, very long time – he feels loved.

 

 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [@fishingboatblues](http://fishingboatblues.tumblr.com/) and [@cheeziswin](http://cheeziswin.tumblr.com/) for edits/thoughts. Extra special thanks to the Stancest Discord chat for a certain AU verse and ultra thanks to @aimydraws for being a general sweetheart and inspiring a scene in the fic via [this amazing, fantastic art](http://aimydraws.tumblr.com/post/149055716440/cellard00rs-couldnt-help-it-i-wanted-to-draw). If you'd like, come visit me on my tumblr, [cellard00rs](http://cellard00rs.tumblr.com/)! Thanks for reading! :)


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